Page 91 of Anything But Lonely

On Emerson.

Naked.

In my bed.

I know it’s mine. That’s my suitcase on the foot of the bed, and the hoodie I took off when I woke up this morning laying across the comforter.

Emerson is naked. In my bed.

The video paused on her on her knees, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, stopping just above her tits, the familiar spiderwebs on full display, along with her dusty pink nipples.

My mouth waters, my dick instantly going hard.

I’m no better than a teenager who just discovered porn.

I hover my thumb over the “Play” icon.

And before I can convince myself otherwise, I click it.

My eyes are glued to the screen as Emerson stares directly at the camera, holding a fucking red silicone vibrator to her clit, her mouth opening as she tips her head back.

Clicking the volume button, turning it up loud enough for me to just barely hear the moan she makes.

The seconds feel like hours as I watch her hold the toy against her pussy just before she reaches behind her, grabbing the fucking pillow behind her and settling under her hips before pressing the toy back to her clit.

Her hips start moving, riding my pillow. Her tattooed thighs move against my bed, her fingers fisting the pillowcase below her. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, but the moans escape anyway, growing louder as she rocks her body.

I’m frozen. Watching. Waiting.

Needing her to come.

And then she looks directly into the camera.

A knock on the door sounds, and my entire body jumps, my phone flying out of my hand.

“Mateo!” one of the stage managers says through the door. “You’re on!”

Bending down to pick it up, my fingers fumble over the screen, clicking out of the video and back to our messages, where two more texts come.

A parting gift for my favorite panty thief ;)

Followed by a picture—Emerson standing next to my bed with a thumbs-up.

Posing next to a red thong laid on my pillow.

Wearing my fucking hoodie.

More knocks sound at the door. “Mateo!”

And that’s when the world around me returns, and I’m no longer trapped in Emerson’s.

My heart rate returns to normal, and I hear past the beating in my ears—I have about fifteen seconds until my cue. I power off my phone, pushing it into my back pocket.

And I’m about to go on stage with a fucking hard-on.

CHAPTER 32

EMERSON