Page 17 of Piggy

Charlotte

I rest my ear on the door. Footsteps fade.

Grayson walks away from the door to go screw some pornstar.

I love him. I said it.

How could he push me out and just walk away?

I brace myself.

If I hear her moan... If I hear him give someone else the pleasure he gave me...

I won’t survive it.

Muffled talking, silence, more talking, movement.

It’s all guessing at this point.

Silence .

My breath catches.

Moaning .

There it is.

I hang my head, my arms limp at my sides as I back away from the door. I step down the hall, dragging my feet, breath gone, world shattered.

I lied to myself. I loved the wrong guy and—

“Charlotte.”

I freeze.

Spin around.

Grayson stands at the end of the hallway. Clothed. Hands in his pockets.

“You’re obnoxious. Loud. Goddamn annoying,” he says, his voice flat, face unreadable.

But mine isn’t.

My eyes widen. Then my lips split into a smile so wide it hurts. My whole body ignites with joy and—

I dance.

I spin in a circle and throw my hands up.

“La la la la la! You couldn’t sleep with her! Because you lovvvve me!”

I twirl again, arms flung out, dizzy with relief.

He just stares.

Stone-faced.

But I swear... I swear I see it.

That one sharp breath he takes, like he’s trying not to smile. Maybe I cracked something open inside him.

“This isn’t a joke,” Grayson says, stepping closer. His voice drops lower. “Nobody gets me hard anymore. Nobody cries like you, shakes like you. Turns me on like you.” He looks away. “I’m fuckin’ obsessed with you.”

I stiffen. “But I’m here. Why are you so disappointed?”

“I owe a lot of money,” he replies, his eyes dark. “I needed to cam because if I don’t pay up—”

“It’s okay,” I say, breathless. “We’ll figure it out — together.”

For a second, I think he might soften.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he cups my shoulders in his big hands firmly. His grip bites into my skin.

“You only think you love me,” he says, staring right into me. “You don’t even know who I am.”

I open my mouth. I want to tell him I do know. That I choose him anyway, but before I can get a word out, he throws me over his shoulder like I’m nothing. He bursts into a room and flops me on the bed.

Right away, I know it’s a... sex room. Lots of weird props and dim lighting. Erotic art. He opens a drawer and tosses something at me.

“Put that on,” he orders, his tone darker than I’ve heard from Grayson.

I catch it against my chest and look down. Black, strappy, shiny.

Latex.

I swallow hard and glance over at him.

This is what he wants. The bad girl like Meghan. The kind of woman who would crawl for him .

I clutch the latex tighter to my chest. “I— um... could you turn around?” I ask softly.

He smirks and turns around.

I hold it up. It’s new with tags. I swear I am in a sex factory. I pull off the tags and undress.

Quickly, I learn that latex is hard to put on. Tight. It sticks. It clings. It pulls at my thighs, my waist, my chest.

I have to cram myself into it, sucking in air, tugging, fighting the zipper closed.

When it’s finally on, I glance down at myself.

It rides high on my hips, tight across my waist where the little pooch I hate is impossible to hide. The light shines off the latex, almost pointing at every imperfection.

My palms are sweaty and I’m so nervous.

Gosh , I hope Grayson thinks I look sexy!

But I remember how he would groan when we slept together, kiss me all over like he cherished my body, like it brought him pleasure just to touch me.

My voice barely rises above a whisper. “Okay. I’m dressed.”

He turns around and the second his eyes land on me, everything in the room feels heavier.

He stops cold.

And the way he looks... Not soft. Not loving.

Hungry.

Mean.

Like he wants to ruin me .

I blush and quickly pose sexy, but I cringe as his eyes gloss down my plucky body.

I’m no Meghan. I’m thick and pudgy.

His jaw flexes, and he licks his lips. “You’re so...” he draws in a breath.

“Sexy?” I squeak.

“Lovely.”

The word stabs. I smile automatically, but my chest aches. I don’t want to be lovely. I want to be craved. Wanted so bad it hurts him.

Before I can sink deeper into my own head, he peels off his shirt.

And my heart forgets how to beat.

The dim lighting makes the lines of his body faintly glow, every muscle highlighted. The bruises along his side fade into the shadows, giving him a rugged look that makes me literally clench. He endured that for me. Wanted to protect me... of all people.

He rubs the back of his neck, his muscles flexing. The motion is almost boyish, but when he speaks, there’s nothing soft left.

“I’m gonna show you who I am.”

He pauses, jaw tight. “When you want to stop, say so. I’ll stop.”

I nod, my throat too dry to answer out loud.

“Good,” he mutters.

Then, his mouth curves into something wicked and cruel .

“Now, get on your hands and knees,” he orders, voice sharp enough to cut. “And crawl over here, like the clueless little pig you are.”

The words hit like a slap.

I suck in a breath, blinking, but he just stands there, waiting, the command hanging heavy in the air between us.

I don’t want to be like those fantasy girls he talked about. The ones who drooled over him, humiliated themselves for him.

But I also do. God, I do. If this is what it takes to have him... all of him... then I’ll do it.

So I swallow my pride. I drop to my hands and knees.

The floor is hard under my palms. The latex outfit squeaks as I move.

Every inch forward is a battle between shame and desire.

His eyes follow every movement, searing, dark, starved. Like he’s already imagining what he’s going to do once I reach him.

I’m shaking. Humiliated. But also, weirdly proud.

Because I’m doing it.

For him.

For us.