Page 5 of Filthy Twisted Devil

My phone buzzes, and I’m surprised to see a notification from CamCuties. Thank god I wasn’t with the guys when it arrived—if they knew I’d gotten into watching camgirls, I’d never hear the end of it.

No. Make that camgirl, singular.

It’s the reason I didn’t turn off the notifications altogether. The girl I watch usually only goes live at night, which avoids any awkward messages during work.

I only started subscribing to the service a few months ago. Since that article went viral, I haven’t brought any girls home. It’s not like the article scared them off—if anything, I’m attracting more women than ever.

Women I can’t trust.

Anyone who casually jokes about my sex life within minutes of meeting me doesn’t care about my privacy. The second they’re done with me, they’ll go right to social media to dish everything we did together.

I never minded if women used my body for sexual gratification. If they want to get off, I’m all too happy to help. When they use me for clout, though, it makes me feel lower than dirt. I’m less than a warm body to them—I’m just a joke to make the peanut gallery cackle.

So CamCuties felt like a safe outlet. It took me a while to find a streamer I liked. So many of them were too performative, too fake, too awkward, or just not my type.

Then I stumbled on PrairieSmoke, a woman who always hides her face from the camera but still seems more real and honest than anyone else. She stands in the shadows three times a week, talking to her unseen audience, putting on lotion, playing with her dark blonde hair. After teasingly running her hands all over her body, she’ll take out a toy and get herself off. I’ll stroke myself in the dark, rock hard, only getting off after she has a few times.

Before the toys come out, she tells us stories. Not erotic ones, just little anecdotes about her day, adventures working in customer service. It's kind of nice, actually. I've never been the type of guy to keep girls around for long enough for us to get into the mundane kind of pillow talk.

Apparently, I didn't know what I was missing.

The more I hear PrairieSmoke talk, the harder her sexy little moans hit me when she gets out her vibrator. Watching her fiddle with her hair while she recounts a customer who paid for a $200 purchase with a gallon bag of loose change makes my body hum with anticipation, building for the moment this turns to sex.

I don’t know her real name. I don’t want to, either. I like how clean this is, how risk-free. There’s nothing real to tie us to each other. As long as PrairieSmoke has my attention, it keeps me out of beds I’d regret in the morning. It’s worth every penny she never asks me for.

Apart from the site’s membership fee, I don’t have to pay her anything. I mostly just watch, though I did tip her once, six weeks ago. She was telling a story about a customer and she laughed. It was a loud, warm laugh that I felt all the way down to my bones—something real. It was inexplicably sexy.

So I sent her a quick tip. $500, with a note, thanks for the laugh.

I’m guessing that single tip was what earned me this notification. Auction invitation: High-value exclusive date that can only be bought once.

A chance to meet PrairieSmoke in person, apparently. Well, I’m not interested. The fact that I’ll never know her is the whole reason I’m watching her. I shove the phone back in my pocket and look back at Leonard’s list instead.

I’ve got enough to do without worrying about camgirls.

“Can I interest you in a fruit tart?” Ryan says, presenting me with a tray of horrifying-looking little pastries.

“What kind of fruit, exactly?” I hedge. Ryan might be the worst cook on the planet, which somehow never prevents him from trying to contribute when we gather for dinner.

“Pineapple, tomato, and bell pepper,” Ryan’s girlfriend Pippa says, giving me a capital-L Look of horror. “You’ve been warned.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “Sorry, dude, I think you only named one fruit there.”

“Tomatoes and bell peppers are technically fruits!” Ryan insists. “You can look it up.”

“I don’t want technicalities involved when it comes to what I’m putting in my mouth,” Pippa says, shuddering.

“I’m refraining from making a very dirty joke,” Ryan replies. “How about you, Maura? Want a tart?”

He turns to our pregnant hostess, seated at the head of the table. Her husband, James, scowls at Ryan. “Don’t you dare,” he growls. “I won’t have your cooking send my wife back to the hospital.”

“Eden?” Ryan tries again.

“I’m not hungry yet,” she says.

“I’ll take some to Beau in the kitchen, Ryan,” Cat offers generously. “I’m sure he’s starving. He and Brinley have been in there for hours prepping.”

Ryan beams. “Great idea.”