“How are you?” he said.

Last time I’d seen him, I’d been desperate enough to fuck him for money. Trade my body for a small extension of my crappy lease on life. And now I’d made it my profession. Whoring it up for the entire Internet.

Frankie slid an arm around my waist, as if sensing my embarrassment. Frankie, with her master’s degree and scalpel blade of a brain, who took no shame cashing in on her looks till she could do what she really loved: run her own business.

If she didn’t feel embarrassed, why the fuck should I?

I made a living doing something on my terms. On my time, at my comfort level. Without letting anyone touch me. And I made more money online than I ever would have in the real world.

My eyes rose to his. “I’m good.”

For the first time in ages, I actually meant it.

“That’s great. That’s really great. Hey, if you ever want to catch up—”

Our cab pulled to the curb, a yellow blur in the downpour, and Frankie and I strolled out together, arm in arm, leaving Curt there with his mouth hanging open.

We waited out the storm on the yacht, Frankie reading an e-book while I stared at the roil and wrath of the sea. My shoulder twitched involuntarily, mimicking drawing. I used to love attacking paper with a stub of charcoal, racing to capture motion before it stopped. Catching that in-between flicker where a movement hung breathless and timeless and forever. It was getting dark before we cast off, a plush velvet fog lying over the water, so thick I tried to scoop it up with my hands, like marshmallow. Once we launched there was only pure white in every direction. Heavy slabs of silence bordered us on all sides, magnifying the slap of water on the hull, our small human noises. Frankie glanced at me and for a wild moment I thought, This isn’t real. She’s Charon, ferrying me to the underworld.

Then the pier materialized out of nothingness, a pair of loons ruffling and gliding off in the lavender twilight. Dane stepped through the haze and my heart lurched in a pleasant way. Frankie left us to handle the boat.

We worked side by side wordlessly. Dane threw me a line without warning and I caught it; he knelt to help me tie it down without prompt. When I slid on the mist-filmed deck he put a steadying hand on my back. The imprint seared into my skin, a warmth silhouetted against the chill.

We were walking up the pier when I yanked at his shirtsleeve, stopping him. An iron lantern bathed us with warm manila light.

“Morgan—”

“You didn’t tell me,” I said, moving closer. “That you’re leaving.”

He put a palm against my cheek. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me. You can’t just leave without saying anything.”

“You’re going to miss me.”

“Whatever. No. A little.”

“You will,” he said, stroking my face, and abruptly I broke free and stalked away from him.

“Morgan.”

Fuck, fuck, what was this? Confusion. Loneliness, manifesting as physical want. Like with Max. Dane was not someone I wanted a relationship with. Someone I’d fuck, yes, sure. But nothing beyond that. Nothing real.

He caught my arm and I spun around and hurled myself at him. For a second we gripped each other, equally stunned, then one of us started the kiss and we both fell into it.

His lips were soft and tinged with bitter earthy beer, and he kissed me gently, one hand behind my head, the other on my waist. I wrapped my arms around him like I’d imagined the night we swam beneath the stars. His body was hard and alive, so alive, moving against mine, pulling me to him so tightly every movement he made rippled through me like water. Our mouths opened, slow and sinuous, tongues curling and my legs parting and his hips pressing between them. I was ready for this. I’d been fucking myself all day, every day for the past four months, and the first warm body against mine made me wetter than I’d ever been on cam. Dane’s erection pressed into my thigh. I could imagine already how we’d fuck: he’d let me get on top, give him a show, then hold me in place and give it to me hard. If we could just get from here to the house without slowing down, without losing focus—

The fog swirled around us like ghosts.

I pulled back.

“Morgan,” he said, reaching for me.

“You’re leaving.” Hands in my hair, frantic. “I’m not fucking you right before you leave.”

I’m not losing someone again.

“What if I stay?”

“You can’t actually do that, can you?”

“No.”

I paced away, tense, then returned calmer. Touched his chest and felt the rise and fall beneath my palms.

“I don’t want to miss you,” I said.

Dane covered my hands with his. “I’ll miss you. Whether or not we hook up.”

I pushed him playfully. Fake lightness. “You’ll meet some gorgeous Boston girl and forget all about me.”

“No.”

“Or a gorgeous guy. One of your clients. A true gentleman. He’ll sweep you off your feet, beat some culture into your thick skull.”

Dane laughed. “Come with me.”

“Frankie needs me here.”

“You don’t need Frankie.”

“Are you splitting?”

“Wasn’t planning to. But if it means I can hold on to you . . .”

“Dane, don’t be stupid.” I stepped away. “We’re the wrong people at the wrong time. We weren’t meant to happen.”

“Maybe I’ll ask your friend with the La Roux hair, then.”

“Ellis?” I said in disbelief.

“She’s cute. And she thinks I’m funny.”

“You are so barking up the wrong tree.”

Dane cocked an eyebrow.

I lifted my face to the wet sky. “This is a good time to say good-bye. Before we really know each other.”

“It would’ve been better before you kissed me.”

“I had to know what I won’t be missing.”

“How was it?”

“Not bad for our first and last kiss.”

He smiled, and I let him sling an arm around my waist and walk me to the house. We parted on the porch and I kissed his cheek. He brushed mine, sweetly.

“Go break a million hearts,” I said.

“But never yours.”

When Dane was gone I sat in the shadows at the corner of the porch, knees to my chest. It was like this every time I got close to someone. Painful. Impossible. Because it was never right. Never what I really wanted.

Mist broke into fingers, long and wispy, curling around me, taking hold. Pulling at me. Tearing. Like my ghosts.

Late the next morning I woke up horny. I hadn’t gotten off last night, but now I was focused and distilled and ready to make some money off the ache between my legs.

Clock check: the UK was getting off work for the evening. I took a soft-focus selfie—sleepy smile, faded Union Jack tee—and wrote, Free show at noon Eastern. Come one, come all. Posted it to my social media accounts and left my cam live while I hit the shower. When I sat down again in a towel, a hundred-odd viewers were waiting.

manchester91: there she is

sexy_stepbrother: welcome back bb

beautifulbastard: girl u look fine

beautifulbastard: I want to be that towel

beautifulbastard: and soak u up

beautifulbastard: like the Brawny man

sexy_stepbrother: lol

manchester91 has tipped Morgan 100 tokens.

Getting paid just for sitting down. I smiled. “Thanks for spreading the word, guys. I see some regulars. How are you, Manchester?”

manchester91: great bb, how was your shower?

“Just got out, and I’m still dripping.” I looked into the cam and tried not to laugh. “But you boys are going to make me even wetter, aren’t you?”

I lay back on the bed, let the towel fall, and got to work.

Another shower after, more leisurely. Eyes closed, water pounding at my face. I pressed my palms to the tile and lowered my head. A line of scarlet heat scrawled up my right arm. Fuck. One of those days.

I threw on shorts and a tee and was toweling my hair dry when I walked into the kitchen and Ellis looked up from her laptop.