I roll onto my side and fold my arm under my head, thinking.
I don’t want to ask him. No, I’m definitelynotgoing to ask him. What the fuck would I even say? He hates most people on a good day, and me, for whatever reason, especially. I know he thinks it’smyfault that Wendy’s even here,even though I’d still really,reallylove to hear whatyouwould have done, genius.
I sit up now, grabbing my drink back and taking another healthy sip.
And hedoesthink he’s so much smarter than me. Than all of us, probably. Just because he’s got his own alter-ego thing going.Except for his alter ego is allaboutexposure,I think, snorting into my cup. I assume, anyway. I’ve never actually looked at his page.
Although…
I set the cup back on my bedside table. Pick my phone back up.
I lick my lips, tuck my elbows to my chest so my phone’srightin front of my face, and type.
blue biker instagram.Search.
And for the first time all night, the top result is actually what I’m looking for.
It’s him, all right. His profile picture’s got a helmet, but the most recent reels at the top are unmistakable: if the eyes didn’t give it away, the tattoos would.
I clutch my phone tighter and frantically jab the volume down button, pulse racing, and sit frozen for a few seconds. Ten. Thirty. Finally, after at least a whole minute, I relax.
From his Instagram, it’s just a few clicks to his bio, to his link-in-bio landing page, to his…professional page.
A warning window pops up in the middle of my browser.You must be 18 years or older to view this content,it informs me. I smirk, slug back the remainder of my cocktail, and tap the YES, DADDY button.
And…I’m in.
I’m looking at Blue. At somuchof Blue. Shirt on, shirt off. Body shots and close ups. Muscles, abs, arms,shoulders, neck. His thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, smirking.
WANT A RIDE?reads the banner at the top.
And in spite of myself, my throat goes a little dry.
Most of the thumbnails are overlaid with a padlock icon—subscribers only, and there’s no way I’m entering payment info here, even if all I have are prepaid gift cards. But the three at the top are available—for freeloaders, reads the subheading—and before I can stop myself, I tap on the first one.
The clip zooms to full screen, and I stare, fascinated, as Blue—my asshole roommate, the guy who hates my guts for no good reason—leans into the camera, nice and close. He’s shirtless. Smirking. And he’s talking right to me.
It’s still muted, the volume icon slashed through. So without thinking, I scramble for the cheap Bluetooth earbuds that are somewhere in my nightstand drawer and stuff one in my ear.
“…watch me stroke my cock for you?”
I clap my hand to my mouth as heat rushes over my chest, up the sides of my throat, blooming over my face, an electric tingle at the back of my neck.
“Is that what you want, pretty girl? Want to see me come?”
Dear fucking God.
It’s Blue’s voice, for sure. I know what he sounds like. But I’ve never heard him like this. Not deeper, exactly, but…warmer.Closer.More intense, if that’s even possible.
The kind of voice I’ve never heard from him.
And I can’t stop listening.
“I’ll do it for you.” On my screen, Blue smirks. Eases back and sits—there’s a chair behind him.This is hisroom, I think, the room that’s literally just down the hall from me. “But you’ve gotta make me a promise first.”
One hand spans his chest, his thumb grazing his own pierced nipple, and his throat bobs in response, a wordless,masculinesound escaping his lips as his other hand skims lower, toward his waistband. His belt.
“You’ve gotta promise…”
