Page 12 of Kingpin's Nanny

Goodbye.

“No!” I didn’t realise how much I wanted this, but the thought of whoever it is on the other side of this little mistake leaving is unbearable. “Why did you book my show?”

The dots bounce as he types, and I watch the screen as though I can will his response into existence. As if I take my gaze from it, he won’t answer.

But the bouncing stops, and no text appears.

“Why didn’t you turn up at the beginning?” I ask.

No reply. Not even a little bouncing ball.

“I don’t get it,” I say, frustration rising. “Why pay all that money and not watch?”

It was a mistake.

Oh. Oh my, that really hurts. I don’t want to be a mistake. My whole life I’ve been unwanted.

But he did book me. It wasn’t an accident. He logged into OnlySantas, made a profile, entered his credit card details, and ultimately, he’s here now. So I summon a smile that I hope is sultry and knowing.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Looking right into the camera, I run my fingers through my hair and stretch upwards, like I’ve seen other camgirls do. It’s cute and sexy. Probably.

“We haven’t had our exclusive.” I’ve dropped to a breathy whisper. “We still can. I’m yours to direct.”

I move my hands to my breasts and squeeze them together, leaning forwards to give him a better look. It doesn’t quite work in my T-shirt, but there are no more messages from my patron.

“Tell me what you want me to do, Boss.” Maybe he likes being called that, since he made it his screen name.

I’ve paid you. That’s enough.

“No. It’s not.” The protest is out before I can stop it. I wanted something more from this evening.

More money?

7

LUCAS

“It’s not about the money,” she says softly.

What is it about?

“I want to feel sexy and desirable.” She shrugs and smiles sadly, still my sunshine even when she’s upset. “I wanted you to see me.”

My heart does a somersault, but she doesn’t mean me. She means YourBoss, and she clearly doesn’t think I’m actually her boss given what she was saying when I finally logged on.

Probably I’m too old for her to imagine I’d have any interest in her, but my cock has never been harder.

I shouldn’t have stopped her. I wish I’d walked down to her bedroom, unzipped my aching cock, held her down, and told her that she asked for this.

I should have defiled her in that cute Santa hat, my face an impassive grumpy mask, as ever.

Unfortunately, I seem to have some morals left, so instead I’m going to sit through saving her from herself and then jerk myself raw on my own as I wish things were different.

“That’s why I set up this evening’s show. I set this up because I felt—feel,” she corrects herself, “about as attractive as a squashed fruit cake.”

The times I’ve shut down her flirting crash over me, and I nearly write, “Sorry”. Then I come to my senses.

I love fruit cake.