Shutting and locking the door behind him, he dialed his phone as he walked to the car, his lungs expanding and contracting, the axis of the world righted, his confidence regained, masculinity intact.

“Thorat. I’m done. Get her back.”

It had been November 11. Less than twenty-four hours before Katie McLaughlin had ruined his life.

CHAPTER 25

THE “END CHAT” message dings, and I press the button on my remote, my lights shutting down with one quiet sigh. I relax against the mattress, not surprised in the least when my phone vibrates, muffled by sheets, my hands fumbling across the fabric before finding and unveiling the phone. I answer it with a smile.

“Hey, baby.”

Jeremy’s voice is throaty, as if he has just woken up and is flexing his throat muscles back into action. “Hey.” I grin at the thickness in his voice, and imagine him stretched out on his bed, chest heaving, cock heavy in his hand. Sated.

“Well?” I wait.

“I think I just fell in love with you.”

I think? It is close, close enough that my heart races and chest tightens. Do I want that? Am I ready? I laugh the statement off, rolling onto my back. “That’s what they all say.”

“I want to see you. Now.”

My smile widens, and I prop myself up, glance at the top. “It’s too late. It’s almost ten.”

“Tomorrow?”

I blush. “Tomorrow.”

“Is that how they all are? Your chats?”

My smile drops at the vulnerability in his tone. Suddenly, every bit of my cybersex prowess is a potential negative, his thoughts quite possibly running through a wood chipper of what-ifs. “No,” I say softly. “None of them have been like that.”

It is, in some ways, true. It is, in other ways, one of the most harmful lies I have ever told him. I’ve been that aroused before. Have come to the sound of a man’s voice plenty of times. I enjoy my job. I enjoy the escape it gives me. I understand that a boyfriend might have an issue with what goes on under the lights of my set. It’s more than understandable. It is expected. And I wonder, my high fading, how much of an issue this will turn into. I wonder if my budding love is worth the extinguishing of my online life. I can’t stay in 6E without the cyber interaction. I will go crazy. Crazier.

“Night, baby.” His voice holds trepidation in its sweetness.

“Night.”

I hang up the phone, wishing it were earlier. Wishing I could overcome his worry with physical contact. Wishing he could come over and pin me against the wall, put his mouth on my skin. But it’s late. This time of night? I’m as likely to kill him as kiss him. And that would be a tragedy. Because despite our issues and the cavernous void of my secrets, I think I’m falling in love with him too.

CHAPTER 26

FREEDOM CAN BE a drug. The more you get, the more you want. It was easier when I completely restricted myself. When I locked myself into my apartment for three years and forgot what freedom tasted like. Now, just a few days inside and I am starting to feel claustrophobic. I’m itching for the stolen moments of fresh air and stars, yearning for the smells of life being lived, the sounds of people laughing, couples fighting, the brush of someone’s hand against your own. Jeremy helps. His visits are the best part of my day, each package delivery a mini-visit. I’ll turn off the spotlights, put my computer to sleep, and we’ll eat lunch, cross-legged on the floor, our backs against the wall, or at the table, noisily slurping soda and eating. Eating typically leads to kissing, and we’ve had a few make-out sessions, there on the floor, food cartons pushed out of the way as he reminds me of the one thing better than takeout. But he doesn’t stay long. Not during the week, when we’re both on the clock and my horny clients are anxiously waiting. He’ll kiss me softly and leave, taking my mail and garbage down, his uniformed backside tugging temptingly at my psyche as I close the door.

Those visits hold me over. Get me through the rest of the day until Simon locks me in. I’m returning to the window more and more, my self-control grateful that I am on the sixth floor. Too high to contemplate jumping or climbing down the brick face. The click of my door’s lock is my nightly alarm clock—the reminder to my struggling subconscious that the witching hour is near, my own dark fantasies itching to take flight. On the bad nights, that’s when I turn off the cameras, bidding good-bye to the flushed faces and hungry demands of my clients. On the bad nights, I explore my own sick fantasies. I am like my clients—on the edge of danger, playing with the fire of fantasy and hoping I don’t slip. Hoping I don’t fall over that dangerous edge and act out on my desires.