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“What’s that face for?” Mia asks as she leans over the counter and watches me. With the way she’s bent forward at the hips, she’s practically pushing her breasts out.
Does she know what a tease she’s being or is she really that naive?
“Nothing,” I say, cracking open my beer. “I was just asking myself how I’m going to survive this week without doing some sort of work.”
She rounds the kitchen counter, standing right next to me before she hops up onto the surface so that now, instead of having to face her overflowing cleavage across the island, I now have a close-up view. Her knees fall apart as she leans back on her hands.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s fucking with me, teasing me on purpose just to drive me crazy.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me. Unless you’re thinking about going back,” she says playfully.
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or serious; there’s something almost flirtatious in her demeanor that’s throwing me off. Mia has never once been the least bit flirty with me, so I assume it’s sarcasm.
But after last night, I can personally think of about a hundred things we could do to make these next seven days downright sublime.
No. Stop it.
My dick has somehow grown a brain of its own, and it doesn’t care about the multitude of reasons I should avoid thinking about Mia this way.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I reply.
There’s a twinkle of trouble in her eye. Then she snatches the beer out of my hand and raises it to her lips. Just watching the way her throat works as she swallows the liquid down, I realize I’m in big, big trouble.
* * *
After dinner, I get myself settled in my basement bedroom. The lake house is three floors, and the finished basement is usually reserved for guests, with a large cozy living room, a private bathroom, bedroom, and a door that leads to the hot tub out back. All in all, it has me wondering why I haven’t been taking advantage of this vacation home more.
Pulling out my phone, I check my emailagain, but still…there’s nothing.
Then, I feel my thumb drifting toward the new camgirl app. The one I just downloaded last night.
She wouldn’t be online right now, would she? She’s somewhere upstairs, two floors up, but our parents are home. Would she really be so bold as to go live with them just two doors down?
My question is answered when I open the app and see her name at the top.
WickedKitten214 is live.
Dammit, Mia.
When I click on her livestream, the video opens up showing her on her bed again, fully clothed, thank God, and drawing something in an open journal. She’s on her stomach with her knees bent, her feet crossed, nonchalantly chatting while drawing.
“I used to want to be an artist when I was a kid,” she says. “My parents took me on a trip to Venice when I was ten, and I remember these artists on the street that could paint a whole portrait in like fifteen minutes. And I remember thinking…I want to do that when I grow up.”
Then she lifts the notebook to reveal the drawing on the page, and I let out a loud cackle when I see the horrific sketch of her cat, Betty, with a lopsided head and crooked eyes.
She giggles as she says, “But as you can see, I’m no artist. My parents put me in gymnastics instead, which was fun, I guess. I was better at that.”
I find myself reclining on the blue couch, propping my feet on the coffee table as I watch her. She has a sort of charisma that’s perfect for the camera; she’s able to keep the broadcast entertaining, without letting the moment drag on or feeling awkward. How did I never notice how charming she is?
My eye keeps tracking down to the private room request button, but it would be pretty stupid to pay four-hundred-and-fifty dollars to chat with someone that I can walk up two flights of stairs, in the same house, to see for free. But then again, I don’t make smart decisions.
I punch my finger against the button and agree to the fee again, trying not to think too much about it. It’s research, I tell myself. I need to see this through. There has to be some reason I’m suddenly finding myself attracted to a girl I’ve known for fifteen years.
Seriously, why her?Why not any of the hundreds of girls that have crossed my path in the same amount of time. Hundreds of girls that I feltnothingfor. But now, for some reason, I’m drawn to this one.
Mia notices my room request again and says goodbye to her livestream crowd. Then, just like last time, the screen goes black before asking me for camera and microphone access. Both of which I decline.
“Hello again, Drake,” she says with a crooked smile. The name throws me off for a moment, before I remember that drunk Garrett gave her the name of my ladies’ man friend, Drake. Mia would love Drake. Of course, he would love her too, but probably only once or twice.
