I hate you

Ivy

I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him standing in the doorway, snow melting on his dark coat, that calm, predatory stillness, and those eyes that already knew every filthy secret I’d ever whispered to the camera.

By four in the morning, I gave up.

I crept downstairs in nothing but an oversized sweater and tiny sleep shorts, the house dark except for the soft glow of the Christmas tree. 

My nipples were already tight from the chill… or maybe from the knowledge that he was somewhere under the same roof.

Outside, fresh snow blanketed everything. Inside me? Pure chaos.

I needed coffee. I needed five minutes where Patrick Laurent didn’t exist.

The second I stepped into the kitchen, I knew I wasn’t getting it.

He was already there.

Leaning against the marble island in black sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his hips and a dark long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms. A mug steamed near his hand while low, sultry jazz played softly. The scent of his cologne—woody, expensive, masculine—hit me like a drug.

His eyes lifted slowly. No surprise. Just dark satisfaction.

“You walk quietly,” he said, voice low and rough like he’d just woken up from something far less innocent than sleep.

My body betrayed me instantly. Heat pooled low in my belly, slick and insistent, just from the sound of him.

“You scared me,” I breathed.

“You’re awake early.”

“I could say the same.”

A faint, dangerous smirk tugged at his mouth.

“I rarely sleep much.” His gaze drifted down my bare legs for a second before returning to my face. “Especially not when I know we are both sharing the same roof.”

I moved toward the coffee machine, hyperaware of every step. The fabric of my sweater brushed against my sensitive nipples with each movement. I could feel him watching me like I was still on camera, except this time there was no screen between us.

He could reach out and touch me if he wanted.

“You knew,” I said, keeping my eyes on the cup.

Silence.

Then: “Yes.”

My thighs clenched.

“For how long?”

“A few months.”

I spun around too fast. “A few months?”

His expression stayed infuriatingly calm, but his eyes had darkened.

“You should sit down before you spill that coffee, Ivy.”

The way he said my name made my stomach flip.

“You watched me for months, knowing exactly who I was?”

“I watched you long before I knew your name.” His voice dropped. “Before I knew you were my friend’s daughter.”

Shame and arousal twisted together so tightly I couldn’t tell which was which anymore.

“You should’ve told me.”

“And said what?” he asked softly, dangerously. “‘Hello, I know your father while I stroke my cock every time you spread your legs for me online?’”

Jesus.

The crude words in that velvet voice sent a fresh rush of wetness between my legs. I crossed my arms, suddenly aware of how little I was wearing.

“You could’ve stopped watching.”

His jaw flexed. “I could have.” He took a slow step closer. “But I didn’t want to. And neither did you.”

The air between us felt electric.

I looked away first, heart hammering.

The coffee machine beeped. Neither of us moved to get it.

“You think I’m pathetic now,” I muttered.

“No.” He was closer now. “I think you’re beautiful when you’re desperate to be seen. When you’re touching yourself and wishing it was someone who actually understood what you need.”

Heat flooded my face. My pussy throbbed.

“You watched all of them?”

“Most.” His voice was darker now. “I especially liked the one where you rode that toy and moaned about wanting to be fucked so deep it hurts.”

“Oh my God.” I buried my face in my hands, mortified and so turned on I could barely stand still.

That finally made him smile. A real one. Slow. Devastating. It made him look younger and somehow even more dangerous.

“You’re embarrassed now,” he murmured, stepping even closer until I could feel the heat of his body. “But you weren’t embarrassed telling thousands of strangers your favorite position is being pinned down and used.”

My breath hitched. “Can you not say things like that so casually?”

“You said them casually on stream.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “Now we’re offline, little girl. And I’m right here.”

My phone buzzed on the counter.

BigDaddyP sent you a tip: $25,000.

I stared at it, then up at him in disbelief.

“Are you serious right now?”

“You seemed tense.” That wicked half-smile again. “Figured you could use some… relief.”

“You’re literally standing ten feet away from me.”

“And?” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I could be ten inches away if you stopped pretending you don’t want this.”

My thighs pressed together instinctively. He noticed immediately, eyes flicking down with dark hunger.

“I’m not streaming while you’re here,” I said weakly.

Patrick’s gaze burned into me.

“We’ll see about that.”

The sheer arrogance should have pissed me off. Instead, it made me ache.

He took another step forward, close enough that I had to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

“I hate you,” I whispered, voice shaking.

His hand lifted slowly, not quite touching my face, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of his fingers.

“No, you don’t,” he said quietly, almost tenderly. “You’re just terrified of how wet you get when I look at you.”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because he was right.