Little brat

Patrick.

The second she whispered “Don’t,” something primal tore loose inside me.

I still held back.

Barely.

My hands slammed onto the counter on either side of her, caging her in without touching. The marble was cool beneath my palms. Ivy was anything but. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and that oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin I wanted to bite.

She looked up at me with wide, hungry eyes, breathing fast, thighs pressed together like she was already aching.

Fuck.

I’d imagined this exact scene for months. She backed against a counter, wet and waiting for me to ruin her.

“You should be very careful with that word,” I said, voice low and rough.

Her fingers twisted tighter into my shirt.

“What word?”

“Don’t.”

The innocent way she said it made my cock throb painfully against my zipper. She had no idea what that single word did to a man like me.

I’d spent months jerking off to her streams, controlling every urge while she teased thousands of strangers. Now she was real, warm, and standing two inches away from my aching dick.

“You think too much,” she whispered, eyes dropping to my mouth.

I leaned in until my lips brushed her ear.

“If I stopped thinking, sweetheart, you’d already be bent over this counter with my cock buried so deep you’d feel me for days.”

Her breath hitched sharply. I watched her nipples harden into tight peaks under the thin sweater. No bra. Just those perfect tits begging for my mouth.

“You like this, me touching you like this. It makes you wet.” I murmured, dragging my thumb slowly down the side of her throat, feeling her pulse race.

Color flooded her face. “You sound arrogant.”

“I sound honest.” I let my hand slide lower, stopping just above her collarbone. “You’re soaked right now, aren’t you?”

She didn’t deny it.

Her thighs clenched again, and I nearly lost it.

“You know what I spent all of dinner thinking about?” I asked, voice darker. “The number of times you crossed and uncrossed your legs under the table while staring at my mouth. Wondering how my tongue would feel between your legs.”

“Patrick…” The warning in her voice was pathetic. She was trembling with need.

I stepped back before I did something reckless.

The distance made her frown, but I saw the way her eyes tracked me. She didn’t want me to stop.

I picked up my whiskey, needing something to keep my hands occupied.

“You should go to bed, Ivy.”

Her mouth fell open. “That’s it? You kiss me like that and now you’re sending me away?”

The frustration in her voice was adorable. And incredibly fucking hot.

I smiled slowly. “If I was dismissing you, you wouldn’t still be standing there looking at me like that.”

Silence.

Then, softer, almost shy: “How am I looking at you?”

I set the glass down and closed the distance again, backing her into the counter once more. This time I let my body press lightly against hers, letting her feel exactly how hard I was.

“Like a girl who’s dripping down her thighs and too proud to beg,” I said against her lips.

Her breath caught again.

Every reaction she had was written openly across her face. One of the things I’d become addicted to online.

I watched her shift slightly against the counter, suddenly hyper aware again of her bare legs beneath the oversized sweater.

My sweater.

“I stole this from your guest room earlier,” she admitted quietly, following my gaze downward.

“I know.”

“You seriously notice everything.”

“You keep repeating that as it surprises you.”

“It does.”

I stepped closer again slowly.

This time she didn’t even pretend not to want it.

Her breathing changed before I touched her.

“You know what surprises me?” I murmured.

“What?”

“That you still think this”—my fingers brushed lightly along the hem of the sweater covering her thigh—“is about sex.”

The air shifted instantly.

Ivy went very still beneath my hand.

Because she understood what I meant.

If this were just about sex, I could have had that anywhere. Easier. Simpler. Safer.

But I kept returning to her.

Her voice. Her honesty at two in the morning. The sadness she tried disguising as confidence.

I wanted more than performances from her. That was the problem.

“I don’t know what this is,” she admitted quietly.

Neither did I.

And that unsettled me more than anything else.

I brushed my knuckles lightly against her cheek once before stepping back completely this time.

“Go to sleep, Ivy.”

Her eyes searched mine.

“And if I can’t?”

My gaze darkened slightly.

“Then don’t stream tonight.”

The silence after that was immediate.

Tense.

Because we both knew exactly why.

Ivy stared at me for another long second before finally turning toward the doorway.

But halfway out of the kitchen, she stopped.

Looking back over her shoulder with a small, dangerous smile, she said:

“What if I only want to stream for you tonight?”

Christ.

My control snapped for half a second. I took one step forward before catching myself, fists clenched at my sides.

Ivy saw it all—the hunger, the restraint, the raw need.

And she smiled like she finally knew she had just as much power over me.

Little brat. 

She was going to pay for that.