“Who the hell are you? What do you want?” Camil’s voice sliced through the air the second John stepped into the plush living room, sharp and demanding. She stood by a sleek marble bar, one hip cocked, a gss of amber liquor dangling from her manicured fingers.

  John froze mid-stride—truth was, he hadn’t locked down a foolproof story to get close to her. He’d tossed around a few potential ideas, but none felt like a sure bet.

  His mind spun, running back through his line of thinking.

  Starting point: trophy wife, caged up—no outings, no freedom—Bryce was clearly paranoid she’d stray, tangle with some guy behind his back. That SubOnly spending screamed loneliness, tied to Bryce’s ghosting act, always gone. Obvious as hell, but it wasn’t a golden ticket for now—knowing she was restless might get her into bed, only if she trusted him already, but it wouldn’t crack the ice now.

  Shift gears: the system pegged her as a standout—sharp, driven, a star from cradle to college. A woman like that wouldn’t just sit pretty; she’d itch to build something, prove herself, good at winning and pissed at being sidelined. Pitching “business” could hook her ambition, but he couldn’t be sure that’s what still burned in her.

  Then there was Tammy’s SubOnly creator account—Camil’s fan activity was a mixed bag. Her recent views and tips showed no clear leanings—nothing too hardcore, just pretty vanil clips, a scattershot of types and scenes, nothing obsessive. She used the site, but was more of a dabbler than a diehard. No obvious hook there to grab her.

  Last angle—any trapped bird wants to soar, and freedom? That was John’s strong suit, his loose, reckless vibe. Mix it all together, and he’d py it by ear—but he’d have to tread light, keep it reined in. Push too hard, and she’d bolt like a spooked deer.

  He straightened up, fshing an easy, practiced grin. “Good day, Mrs. Calhan! My name’s John—I’m an investment manager with SubOnly.com. Look, you’ve been dropping some serious cash on our site tely—biggest client we’ve got—so I’m here to get your take on it, see what you think. But more than that, we’re scouting new investors, and since you’re clearly into what we’re doing, I figured you might wanna hear our pitch—maybe get in on the ground floor.” His tone was smooth, professional but warm, like he was offering her a golden ticket—casual enough to dodge suspicion, sharp enough to pique interest. It wasn’t airtight, but it sounded legit, dangling a taste of control, a slice of the outside world she couldn’t touch.

  Camil’s reaction was instant—her full lips twisted into a scowl, dark brows knitting as she set the gss down with a sharp clink, the amber sloshing against the rim. She crossed her arms, silk robe slipping off one shoulder to bare a smooth, creamy expanse—brunette waves tumbling long and loose down her back, catching the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. The robe clung to her like a second skin, deep burgundy and shamelessly thin, the hem riding high on her thick thighs, the neckline plunging low to frame a heavy, jaw-dropping chest that strained the fabric with every breath. Her ass was a round, firm masterpiece, hips wide and lush, the kind of curves that screamed ripe, seasoned heat—every inch of her smooth as porcein, not a wrinkle or fw daring to mar that glossy skin. She oozed that MILF allure—raw and unfiltered—yet her hazel eyes rolled with a bored, pissy edge, her whole vibe dripping with restless irritation.

  “How the hell did you even get in here?” Camil snapped, her voice cutting through the plush living room like a whip. John had answered straight—admitting he’d bluffed his way past the guard with a tale of sneaking in to see her, all while holding his “SubOnly investment manager” cover. It was a gamble, raw truth wrapped in a slick role, hoping she’d bite at the hint of bold freedom without bolting.

  Camil’s full lips twitched—a fleeting smirk danced across her face, there and gone, amused at the thought of that lumbering oaf at the gate getting pyed. But her hazel eyes stayed icy. “You’re not worried he’ll come after you ter?” she asked, her tone cold and raspy, ced with a mocking edge, her gaze raking him like he was a smudge on her pristine world.

  John shook his head, an impish glint breaking through. “Nah—he took my cash. No way he scrubs off that ‘accomplice’ stink now.” Then he straightened, dialing it back to earnest. He shrugged, “had no choice, though—trick him or I’d never get in. Might’ve gotten my ass kicked otherwise.”

  She let out a sharp “Tch,” rolling her eyes, but waved a hand toward a plush velvet couch. “Fine—sit and talk your investment crap.” John unched into his prepped spiel—rattling off growth stats, revenue projections, a “core vision” for SubOnly’s future, all delivered with a salesman’s gusto. It wasn’t fwless—numbers wobbled, logic had gaps, and that was deliberate. He wasn’t a pro; he wanted her to spot the holes, flex her smarts—perfect bait for a brain like hers. Mar could’ve polished it, or the system could’ve fixed it, but John needed her to bite.

  Camil didn’t disappoint. She shook her head, a mocking edge in her voice. “How the fuck you nded ‘investment manager’ with this mess, I’ll never know.” Then she tore in—ripping apart his returns model, poking at fws with a razor tongue, her silk robe slipping further as she leaned forward, baring more of that creamy cleavage. John pyed along, nodding with a furrowed brow, feigning confusion—“Wait, how’s that work again?”—prompting her to break it down, her expnations crisp, almost impatient, like a professor schooling a slow student.

  They traded back and forth for over an hour, the vibe shifting—Camil turning teacher, John her eager pupil, soaking it up with half-faked “huhs” and “one more time?”s. He wasn’t totally bullshitting—brainy stuff hooked him when it clicked—but the “lost” act kept her engaged, kept her talking.

  “This’s been a damn eye-opener, Mrs. Calhan—I’ve learned so much from you today. Thanks! You’ve gotta work with us, and keep teaching me.” he said, easing back with a grin, sensing the day’s gains were tapped out. Time to pull back, whet her appetite for more. “Could I grab your number? Easier to keep in touch.”

  She shrugged, rattling off her digits with a bored flick of her wrist—he punched them in, swapped his own, then stood with a quick nod. “Later, Mrs. Calhan” he said, heading out. Camil rose, stretching slow—arms high, robe riding up to fsh those thick thighs—feeling a rare spark in the dull afternoon as she watched him go.

  Outside, Tyler loomed at the gate, face a thundercloud, fists balled like he’d swing any second. John knew the jig was up—the guard had checked the footage—but he didn’t sweat it.

  “Just told Mrs. Calhan inside my dealings with you—if you touch me, she’ll sing to Bryce about me waltzing in today, while you just took the money and let it happen,” he said, with a big smile on his face. Tyler’s jaw locked, a growl stuck in his throat, finger jabbing at the gate—get out. John chuckled, tossing a breezy, “Rex, big guy. Py along—there’ll be plenty in it for you ter,” before sauntering off.

  Camil padded back to the bar, reaching for the bourbon to pour another—something to kill the hours—when her phone buzzed on the counter. A text lit up: “Quit nagging—I just wrapped the investment chat. Not heading back to the office, so can meet you soon. Send me today’s shoot spot! Your pce again?” She frowned, thumb hovering—what the hell?—then a second pinged in: “Sorry, Mrs. Calhan—wrong send!”

  Shooting at someone’s house? With SubOnly tied to it, the implication was bare and bold—sex, this John was making porns. Camil’s full lips parted, a mix of confusion and a flicker of curiosity sparking in her hazel eyes. She couldn’t shake it—after chatting with this guy for that long, she had to know who he was on that damn site.

  She took her bourbon—amber liquid glugging into the gss, a sharp sting hitting her nose as she swirled it. Curiosity gnawed at her, too loud to ignore. With a huff, she grabbed her phone, flopped onto the velvet couch—and opened SubOnly. The screen lit up with thumbnails, a flood of flesh and moans, endless clips spilling across the page. She scrolled, flicking through the mess, hunting for John—his sharp jaw, that sly grin—but it was like digging for a needle in a haystack. Hundreds of videos, sweaty bodies tangled in every setup—bedrooms, showers, backseats—none screaming him. Her thumb swiped faster, frustration creasing her brow, but she couldn’t stop.

  The bourbon went down quick—too quick—burning her throat as she gulped, chasing the dry itch in her mouth. She poured another, gss clinking hard against the bottle, and kept watching. Clips rolled by: a blonde bent over a counter, a cock pounding into her, slick skin spping loud; another with two brunettes doing a double blowjob to a guy on a couch, tongues flicking, gasps echoing, wet slurps dripping from the speakers. Her eyes locked on the screen, chest tightening as the filthy parade sank in. Another swig—liquor searing her tongue, heat pooling low in her gut. The room spun soft, alcohol mixing with the raw, wet sounds from her phone—flesh on flesh, low groans, a woman’s sharp cry as some guy did thrusting hard and fast.

  Camil shifted, thick thighs pressing tight, silk sticking to her sweat-damp skin. Her breath hitched, shallow and quick—fuck, she was parched again. She tipped the gss back, bourbon spilling past her lips, a drop sliding down her chin to drip onto her heaving chest, glistening between those plump curves. The clips blurred into a haze—some dude’s cock smming deep, a girl’s nails cwing sheets, all of it loud, messy, relentless. Her free hand twitched, brushing her neck, then lower, grazing the swell of her breast where the robe gapped wide. Heat fred across her body—skin flushed pink, nipples stiffening under the thin fabric, a dull ache throbbing between her legs. She squirmed, hips rocking faintly, the booze and the dirty flood of images torching her from the inside out—hot, sticky, desperate.

  But her curiosity still cwed at her, shoving the heat aside. John didn’t fit the mold of these grunting studs—his face wasn’t chiseled enough, his frame not tall or ripped, no bulging macho bullshit. He wasn’t man-pretty like them. But his voice—sharp, distinctive, not that low, growling stud rumble—she’d swear she’d heard it somewhere, a nagging itch she couldn’t shake. She scrolled harder, thumb flicking through the endless stream, one hand gripping the phone as the other slid down—fingers brushing her colrbone, then tracing the curve of her breast, squeezing soft flesh through the silk. Her breath caught, a shiver rippling up her spine as her thumb teased a hard nipple, circling slow—fuck, it jolted her, a sharp spark zipping straight to her core.

  Clips fshed—some guy’s cock ramming a moaning redhead, another with a chick doing blowjob on her knees, spit trailing down her chin. Camil’s hand dipped lower, skimming her stomach, nails dragging light over her skin as her pulse hammered. Her thighs parted wider, silk riding up to bare her hips, and her fingers grazed the heat between—wet, slick, pulsing under her touch. She gasped, a low, throaty sound, hips bucking faintly as she rubbed, slow then fast, the ache swelling into a tight, burning knot. Bourbon sloshed in the gss beside her, forgotten—her tongue darted out, licking dry lips, tasting the liquor’s bite as her chest heaved, breasts bouncing with each ragged breath.

  Still, no John—his voice wasn’t in the grunts, the groans, the cheesy lines. She clicked another—a guy growling low, “Take it, baby,” as he cumming hard—and froze. No, not him. His voice stood out, not deep like these meatheads, not intimidating—just a zy, cocky drawl, dripping with don’t-give-a-shit charm. Her mind snapped back—days ago, a new SubOnly clip, lost in the flood, that voice slicing through. She’d heard it, more than once, though he’d barely spoken. Her fingers stalled, slick with her own heat, trembling as she squinted at the screen—blurry face, shadows, not clear enough. “Fuck,” she hissed, frustration boiling over, body screaming for release she couldn’t find, caught between the hunt and the haze torching her raw.

  One st shot—she wasn’t done. If it stuck that hard, she must’ve tipped it. She flicked to her tip history, eyes narrowing as she raked through the st few days, chasing the clip that’d lodged in her head. There—five days back, a fresh record: “Told my sensei I’ve got a boyfriend—but he did it anyway.” What a dumbass title—she barely remembered why she’d tossed cash at it. She tapped it, the screen fring to life. The guy’s face stayed off-frame the whole time, silent through most of it—her thumb scrubbed the bar, ready to ditch, thinking she’d fucked up again.

  Then it hit: “Your boyfriend waiting for you out there? Wanna ditch now and run to him?” That voice—careless, taunting, pure John. Her breath snagged, eyes widening—it’s him!

  She rewound to the start, pulse thudding as the clip rolled again. This guy was a fucking animal—brutal, relentless—his cock front and center the whole damn time, working her mouth like he owned it. Throat pounding, wet, messy sucking—lips stretched, tongue swirling, spit dripping loud, balls spping the face. It wasn’t some oversized stud bullshit, not exaggerated like the others, but it stayed rock-hard from jump, veins bulging, glistening under the light. Camil frowned, doubt creeping in—today’s John seemed smoother, less feral than this beast. Her free hand slid back down anyway, fingers teasing her nipple again, pinching hard—fuck, the jolt hit her gut like a punch. She bit her lip, tasting bourbon and salt as her other hand dipped low, nails raking her inner thigh, then brushing that slick heat—still pulsing, still begging.

  The clip ramped up—he pinning the girl to a desk, flipping her into a 69, his cock plunging back into her mouth as her smeared lipstick and runny mascara streaked her face, a wrecked mess. Camil’s eyes widened—holy shit, the brutality shocked her, even scared her a little, the girl’s muffled gags mixing with his low grunts. But then—his back flexed, broad and lean, that familiar slouch—and her gut screamed John. No doubt now. Her fingers slipped inside—two, then three—stretching, curling, pumping fast as her thumb mashed that sweet spot, slick walls clenching tight. She gasped, ragged and loud, hips bucking off the couch—silk robe bunched at her waist, sweat beading down her spine, breasts bouncing free as the fabric gapped wide. Her tongue lolled, spit trailing her chin, mimicking the screen’s wet chaos.

  Heat coiled tighter—her hand a blur, wrist aching, juices dripping down her knuckles as she chased it. Why the fuck am I doing this watching John?! Her mind felt reluctant, but her hand couldn’t stop. The clip hit its peak—John’s balls twitching, then bursting, everything happened inside that girl’s mouth, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard, cum leaking even from her nose. Camil shattered—her cry ripped out, sharp and raw, thighs cmping her hand as spasms rocked her, hot and messy, soaking her fingers. She panted, chest heaving, sweat pstering her hair to her neck, eyes gssy as the bourbon haze spun with her release.

  Then—fuck—the video softened. John eased off, his hands sliding gentle under the girl, lifting her down from the desk with a tenderness that didn’t match the beast from seconds ago. He cradled her, brushing her wrecked hair back, a lover’s touch—soft, intimate. Camil’s brain shorted out—what the fuck? This asshole was a goddamn whirlwind—feral one minute, tearing into her like prey, then flipping to some sweet boyfriend shit the next. This fucking John—who the hell was he? Her hand stilled, slick and trembling, a weird pang hitting her chest as the screen faded—caught between disgust, awe, and a hunger she couldn’t name.

  John strolled down the night-draped street, phone pressed to his ear, Tammy’s voice crackling through. “Any new views from her tonight?” he asked, fishing for more on Camil, his tone cool but edged with intent.

  “Fucking wild—she’s watched dozens tonight,” Tammy said, disbelief cing her words as she scrolled her creator account. “And get this—she rewatched our test upload from a few days back! John, she might actually be into you. Last thing she hit was our clip!”

  John’s voice stayed ft, no ripple of Tammy’s hype catching him. His mind churned—what did “st one” really mean? Then a slow, wry grin tugged at his lips. “Her ending on ours doesn’t mean she’s hooked, Tam—no win’s that simple. Lemme chew on it. Catch you ter.” He hung up, pocketing the phone, shoes scuffing the pavement as he walked.

  He’d maybe overpyed his hand—that “wrong” SMS was meant as a tease, a little mystery bomb to stoke her curiosity, reel her closer step by step. But her zeroing in on his clip—plucking it from a sea of filth—showed grit, not gooey obsession. She’d hunted him down, stubborn as hell, and that could cut two ways. Sure, it meant she was hooked now—digging through dozens to find his voice—but a mind that sharp might cool off just as fast once the puzzle’s solved. Satisfaction kills the chase, and he needed her chasing, not settling. It wasn’t the sm-dunk he’d hoped for—more a wild card than a win.

  Still, he smirked into the dark—nothing he couldn’t twist back his way. He’d py along, ride her stubborn streak, and tweak the game as it rolled. A gambler doesn’t fold at a curve; he deals a new hand. Camil was in his orbit—trust seeded, curiosity bzing, a spark of heat smoldering in her head. Soon enough, he’d cash it in—ripe, juicy, all his.