Page 24

Every time I speed up, chasing my climax, one of them reels me back. The fuckers are edging me. Slower. Not yet. Take it out, just the tip. Now back in, all the way, good girl. Beck swears in a steady stream. Theo's breath goes ragged. Elias says the least but his words hit the hardest.

Then he says sternly, "Turn around."

"What?"

"You heard me. Hands and knees. Turn around and put yourself where we can see. All of you." A beat. "We paid for the whole thing. Not half."

And God help me, I do it. I turn around on the comforter, drop onto my forearms, and lift my ass to the camera, every part of me on display for the men who can't see my face but can see everything else. I have never been so exposed in my life. I have never been so turned on in my life.

"There it is," Beck groans. "Jesus. Look at her, boys."

"Spread," Elias says. "Show us. All of it."

I reach back with one hand and open myself, and I hear all three of them lose their minds at once. Beck's dirty talk explodes until I can no longer follow him, Theo mumbles, “Jesus Christ,” and Elias exhales like he took a hit to the ribs.

"Now put it back in and fuck yourself just like that," Elias says, his voice in pieces, "so we can watch every inch."

I reach between my legs and work the toy back into myself from behind, and I fuck it, ass in the air, face down in my own comforter, the exact opposite of in charge. It's obscene and humiliating and electrifying. It’s the single hottest thing I have ever done, and the cha-chings are going off like a slot machine. Apparently three billionaires will pay through the nose to watch a receptionist fall apart from behind.

They wind me up and drag me back, over and over, until I'm shaking, until I'm begging into the comforter, actually begging. Diablo's cool persona has pretty much fallen apart. "Please. Please, I need to, please, let me⁠—"

"Listen to that," Theo says, ragged and wondering. "She's begging. She's actually begging."

"She is." Beck's voice is barely holding. "God, that's pretty. Elias?"

A pause that lasts a year.

"Now," Elias says. "Come for us. And don't you dare be quiet about it."

I come so hard, my vision whites out, ass in the air, fucking myself on a toy for the men whose phones I answer every morning. The cha-chings, the goddamn money they're throwing at me, nearly drown out the sounds I make. But I catch every single one. Of course I do. A girl can come her brains out and still count every last dollar.

What’s crazy is that I started off running this show. No name, no face, my rules, my terms. The entire gig was about clawing back some control over my out-of-control life, because control is something a woman like me is always short of. And tonight, I handed every scrap of it to three men who can't see my face and have no idea I'm the plain Jane who staffs their front desk every day.

Or so I keep telling myself.

But there’s a question I’ve been avoiding. What are the odds? Three men. My three whales. The three Ardent Capital partners whose calendars I keep and whose coffee I pour, who between them found the same nobody camgirl in a city of millions and decided together, as a unit, to spend a fortune buying up every hour of me they can get. They say we. They move as one. That is not three lonely rich guys who each happened onto the same girl. That's a plan.

And a plan means somebody's steering. If somebody's steering, then maybe the one thing I've bet my whole life on, that they have no clue the mouth on their laptop screens belongs to the woman at their front desk, is a garbage bet.

But I push the questions away and take their money, because the answer might be the end of me, and because, God help me, I don't want it to stop.

Besides, I need the damn money.

That's the messed-up part. Being ordered around by these three when I'm Diablo should scare the crap out of me. They already have enough control over my life when I'm Agnes.

But I like it. A lot.

When it's over, Beck says, "same time tomorrow,” like it’s already decided, and who am I to argue. Theo tells me to get some sleep. And Elias says one thing before he goes.

“You didn’t cover your mouth tonight.”

Well, shit.

He's right. I didn't. I was so busy doing what I was told, so far past the point of running my own show, that I forgot the one thing I never meant to give away.

I sit there a long time after the screen goes black, my heart slamming, trying to remember every sound I made.

And I wonder exactly what they heard.