Twenty-One

Per my previous email, the amendments your client has proposed are outside the stipulations my client outlined in the original contract, and if you continue to send egregiously irrelevant amendments, I will adjust my email filters to block correspondence containing pathetic attempts to pork barrel this deal and none of your shit will reach my inbox again.

My thumb hovers over my phone's screen, debating which direction to take this. Objectively speaking, this email makes me sound like a colossal dickbag. I should edit it…and then contact a highly skilled therapist.

But then again, I've got, like, ninety-two unanswered emails and a draft contract to review, and my focus has been shit all day.

Send.

Almost immediately, Frank—copied on the email—texts me: I love you, kid. Perfect response.

I'm too distracted to care.

Putting my nose to the proverbial grindstone has never been an issue for me, but today is an exceptional one. My phone has been vibrating constantly like it's in the process of switching careers from communications device to outright sex toy.

It's oddly flattering.

Only twelve hours have passed since I woke up determined after my pep talk from Dalton, locked myself in the bathroom for sixty minutes, and posted. In those twelve hours, I've received over fourteen-hundred upvotes. And the comments? They're shameless. Truly. Until today, I had no idea how unabashed people were online, but fuck me I'm here for it.

I'm sick. Well and truly sick.Throwaway230948: Holy shit. I just came ON SIGHT.MolotovCockRail: This picture could be the thing that finally heals America.WhatWhatInThe: DM me immediately.AZombieWNoConscience: We would literally never get out of bed…Measure1nceCuckTwice: You could grate cheese on those abs.FuckthePrenup6969: I'm going to call youUnion Pacific because I need you to rail me.

I upvote all the comments. Like I said, I'm sick.

So sick, in fact, that my obsessive scrolling and refreshing distracts me from noticing Valeria at her door when I exit the elevator.

"Hey."

Her voice startles me. Guilty for no reason, I fumble to pocket my phone and nod my chin in her direction, but the embarrassment subsides quickly. Seeing her causes a rise of excitement in my chest like my organs are levitating. Even just standing in the hallway, she's so absurdly beautiful.

"Hey," I reply, scooting around her before stopping a couple feet away. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," she replies, her eyes drifting briefly up to mine before she lets them fall to the takeout bag in my hand. "How are you?"

"Depends. Are you still opposed to dating me? Because if your answer is yes, then my answer to your question is: Not good, Valeria. I'm not good at all."

Valeria folds her lips over her teeth. Her body shifts, relaxing. It's a good sign, but she still ignores my question—like I figured she would. "I noticed you didn't come home last night. Were you…"

It takes a beat for me to realize what she's asking, and once everything clicks, I hate it. Yeah, I may have done my fair share of mindfuckery, but I'd never stoop so low as to make her jealous. "Dalton's parents live in MacLean. We stopped by for dinner and ended up spending the night."

Again, her features relax minutely. If I weren't in the habit of watching her so closely, I may not have noticed.

"I'm not spending the night with anyone," I tell her, even though she didn't ask. And while I'm starting to understand that words alone will never be enough for Valeria, it can't hurt for her to hear it.

Still, she doesn't react outright. Instead, she folds her arms over her chest, wrapping her leather jacket closer. Armor. "I don't know if Everett told you, but he apologized to Cora. Thanks, Lander."

"I had nothing to do with it. Glad he did though."

"Oh. I figured you made him."

"Nope. It was all him. He's great deep down—just slow to warm up."

A knowing look passes over her face. "Cora is the same way. Too bad you didn't know. If you had, you would have figured—"

"That those two would detest each other and cause us both a lot of headaches? Yeah. Sorry about that."

She smiles this time, soft but obvious. She doesn't try to hide it, and that smile does unspeakable things to my ego.

"Are you streaming tonight?"

As quickly as it appeared, the smile fades. Valeria hesitates before she nods. "Sunday stream as usual. Are you going to watch?"

I nod as well. "If you're okay with it."

Her eyes drift upwards, traveling in thought until they swivel back to me, resigned. "I guess I can't stop you."

"If you tell me not to, I won't watch."

Her gaze breaks away once more like she's considering it, but then she faces me and shakes her head, emphatic and certain. She doesn't give me an explanation, but I don't need one. I'll take what I can get.

For now.

"Do you want me to watch?" The question slips out against my better judgment.

Valeria doesn't answer this time. All I get is a cordial nod, unbearably neighborly. "Have a great evening, Lander."

"It will be," I reply, eyes locked on hers. "How could it not?"

My final glimpse of her suppressed smile is fleeting, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it type, but it's everything to me.

She retreats into her condo before I can respond. Usually, there's this sense of vacancy whenever she goes. It typically leaves me cold. But tonight, where longing would usually reside, my body thrums with anticipation.

This is going to work.

Scheme number five: Stop scheming. Be honest. Bare your soul…among other things.

A couple hours later, I'm putting the finishing touches on the edited contract and simultaneously joining Valeria's stream on my personal laptop.

She appears onscreen wearing a white crop top trimmed indecently short, the hem landing just below her breasts. Her shiny white booty shorts match the glittery halo she's wearing, and her lipstick is hot pink. The only thing on her that isn't shiny, pristine, and girly is the black choker around her neck—my choker.

For the first time in two weeks, I watch her like I used to. I'm a voyeur, observing the glow from the ring light on her laptop reflected in her eyes. I listen intently as she tells a story about a mishap at Whole Foods today, and an hour later, when she comes breathlessly with an assist from a vibrator shaped like an egg, I can't help but grin because she looks unbelievably gorgeous.

Valeria puts her clothes back on, says her goodbyes, and the number of viewers in her room slowly trickles down to stragglers. I'm always one of the last to leave, so I don't mind waiting. I know she's busy replying to messages and thanking people for tips, so my patience matters.

Her typing slows and her eyes fall on the side of the screen, maybe on the list of remaining viewers. I'm sure she sees Abraham.

Being a tip-and-leave kind of guy, the only time I've ever messaged her was during my first scheme. Tonight, I tip her three hundred as usual, the amount I've given after every twice-weekly session for the last year, but I also send a private message.

The notification makes her freeze.

Her eyes lock on the screen and linger for several seconds that feel agonizingly long until her hand moves to click the link I sent her.

It all happens so fast after that.

At first, her eyes narrow. Her brows shoot upwards, her eyes widen to saucers, and her jaw—not to be left out—drops and stays that way. Then the entire stream ends without warning, leaving me with a gray screen sporting a message that says, This performer has ended their session. Click here to find your next room ;)

And then I pace. I pace and I pace and I pace, clearing the length of my living room twice before I dart into the bedroom and press my ear against the wall. There's nothing—not a sound—and a pang of panic rises in my chest because maybe this was the worst play on the face of the Earth. Maybe she's going to avoid me for the rest of our lives because I'm such a fucking creep. Maybe—

The knock at my door is the sweetest sound I've ever heard, sweeter than a bunch of fat, pink-cheeked angels singing in Latin. I run—I literally run—to my front door.

Valeria is standing in the hallway, not wearing the tempting little white getup she performed in, but an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. Her hair is in a haphazard bun on the top of her head, and the stained hue on her lower lip suggests she hastily scrubbed off all her makeup.

Her eyes are still wide and her cheeks have flushed pink all over again. She holds up her phone—showing me evidence of my evidence—and the next words out of her mouth have no business sounding as electrifying as they do.

"Lander, did you post a naked picture of yourself online to prove you're not afraid of my career ruining yours?"

I glance at the picture of me on her screen, the one I linked in my chat to her. She's right: I'm naked. So fucking naked. It's all there. My abs. My thighs. My erect dick and my balls. My face. It's all free for viewing online—and has been since this morning when I took the picture in my old bathroom at the Cavendish estate and posted it on Reddit.

"Yeah," I confirm, nodding. "…Did it work?"

Without warning, I'm bowled backwards as she slams into me, nearly knocking me off my feet with her petite frame. Immediately, her lips find mine, delivering the most desperate, ravenous, and perfect kiss of my life.

And it's even better than I dreamed it would be.