Chapter 4: Digital Confession
The silence in Alice’s apartment was absolute, a thick blanket smothering the usual city sounds. For three days, her phone had remained dark. No calls. No texts. The ghost of him was everywhere—in the scent on her pillow she couldn’t wash out, in the empty side of the bed, in the memory of sterile light and the sound of a director’s voice.
The curiosity was a sickness. It started as a morbid, punishing itch. She needed to see. To understand the thing that had stolen the man from the restaurant bathroom.
Her laptop glowed in the dark bedroom. It took less time than she’d feared to find it. A dedicated site. A search for “Kade.” Thumbnails loaded, a grid of carnal tableaus. Her stomach lurched. She clicked one at random.
The video buffered, then played.
It was him. The studio. Different backdrop, different performers—a redhead with elaborate tattoos and a man with a thick beard. But him. Kade. He was laughing, saying something off-camera, his easy charm on full display. Then he kissed the redhead, his hand squeezing her breast roughly through her lace top. The transition from banter to business was seamless.
Alice watched, her heart a cold stone. She made herself watch.
She clicked another. This one was more recent, the thumbnail showing a dizzying configuration of limbs. She clicked play.
The scene opened with Jake—Kade—on his knees between two men. They were both large, powerfully built, their cocks erect and framing his face. He turned his head, taking one thick, veined shaft into his mouth with a practiced ease that made Alice’s throat constrict. He sucked deeply, his cheeks hollowing, his eyes slitted in a performance of bliss. His own cock, massive and painfully hard, jutted out untouched.
“Yeah, take that dick, you hungry slut,” one man grunted, grabbing a fistful of Jake’s hair.
Jake moaned around the cock in his mouth, the vibration clearly pleasuring the man, who threw his head back. Then Jake pulled off, gasping, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the glistening tip. “I want it in my ass,” he said to the other man, his voice a low, filthy rasp Alice had never heard. “Stuff me full.”
He turned, presenting himself on all fours. The camera zoomed in, cruelly intimate. The second man spat on his hand, slicked his length, and without ceremony, aligned himself and pushed.
Alice gasped aloud in her silent room. Jake cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was equal parts pain and theatrical pleasure as the man sank in, inch by brutal inch. “Fuck, yeah, so tight,” the man groaned, beginning a relentless, pounding rhythm.
Then the first man moved to Jake’s mouth again. Jake opened up, taking him back in, sucking furiously as he was fucked from behind. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of skin, the choked gags, the raw, grunted profanity.
Alice’s hand had drifted between her own legs. She hated herself for it. Tears of shame and anger blurred the screen, but she couldn’t stop. Her fingers pushed under the waistband of her sweatpants, finding herself wet, hot, aching. She wasn’t turned on by the other men. She was turned on by him. By the sheer, devastating abandon of it. By the proof that his body, the body that had worshipped hers with such terrifying focus, was a communal playground.
Her fingers worked furiously, circling her clit, mirroring the punishing rhythm on screen. Jake was taking both cocks now, moaning louder with each double thrust, his body used and willing. “Harder,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Make me fucking feel it.”
Alice’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. She imagined it was her making him sound like that. Her reducing him to that raw, begging animal. Her hips lifted off the bed, chasing a release that felt like punishment.
Her phone buzzed violently against her thigh.
The shock was electric. Her hand stilled. The phone skittered on the comforter. The screen illuminated.
Jake.
The video played on, Jake’s ecstatic cries filling her bedroom. She stared at the phone as if it were a live wire. It buzzed again. And again. He was calling.
She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t hear his voice, not while the visual of him getting brutally fucked seared her retina. She let it go to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, a text banner slid across the laptop screen.
Jake: Please.
Jake: I know you saw. I need to explain.
Jake: Answer, Alice. Please.
Her fingers, slick with her own arousal, trembled as she picked up the phone. She didn’t call. She typed.
Alice: Explain what? That you’re a liar? You’re not the man I met.
The reply was instantaneous.
Jake: I’m both men. That’s the fucking problem.
Jake: Let me come over.
Jake: Right now.
She looked at the laptop. The scene was reaching its crescendo. She slammed it shut, plunging the room into near-darkness, save for the city glow and the phone’s eerie light.
Alice: Why? So you can perform for me, too? Give me the private show?
His next message was a voice note. She pressed play, bringing the phone to her ear. His voice was ragged, stripped bare, no trace of Kade in it.
“I’m not performing. I’m begging. I’m outside your building, Alice. I have been for an hour. I’m fucking losing my mind. Let me up. Or tell me to go to hell. But don’t leave me hanging here.”
She went to the window, peeling back the curtain just an inch. Down on the street, under a flickering streetlamp, he stood. He was looking up, a solitary figure in a leather jacket, his face pale and drawn in the yellow light.
Her body reacted before her mind could veto it. A deep, treacherous throb between her legs. The memory of his weight, his taste, his desperate whisper in the restaurant. Her mind screamed of the studio, of the two cocks, of the director’s voice.
But her body remembered only him.
She typed one word.
Alice: Come up.
The intercom buzzed minutes later. She didn’t speak, just hit the button to unlock the downstairs door. She stood in the middle of her living room, arms wrapped around herself, listening to the heavy tread of his boots on the stairs, then the soft knock.
She opened the door.
He looked wrecked. His beautiful eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight. He smelled of cold night air and a hint of whiskey. For a long moment, they just stared at each other.
“You watched,” he said finally, his voice low.
“Yes.”
“And?”
He flinched as if struck. Then a slow, dark heat flooded his gaze. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. He didn’t try to touch her.
“It’s a job,” he said, the words tight. “It’s… mechanical. It’s about angles and endurance and making the right noises.”
“You seemed pretty fucking invested,” she spat, the image of his ecstatic face flashing behind her eyes.
“Because I’m good at my job!” he shot back, a flare of anger. “What did you want to see? Disgust? You think that would be better? That would mean I’m suffering. I don’t suffer when I work. I check out. I go somewhere else. The man in those videos… that’s not me.”
“Then who was in my bed?” she whispered. “Who was in that restaurant bathroom?”
“Me!” He closed the distance between them in one stride, his hands coming up to frame her face but not touching, hovering just an inch from her skin. “That was me. Feral. Unscripted. Scared shitless of how much I wanted you. That’s the real fucking problem, Alice. I don’t feel anything with them. I felt everything with you. I feel everything for you. And it terrifies me.”
His confession hung in the air, more intimate than any sex act she’d witnessed.
“So you showed me the monster,” she said, echoing Serena’s words. “To scare me off.”
“To set you free,” he corrected, his voice breaking. “Because you deserve… lavender soap and quiet weekends and a normal man. Not this. Not me.”
Her eyes searched his. She saw the shame, the fear, the brutal honesty. And beneath it, the same hungry, desperate want that had started this.
“I don’t want a normal man,” she heard herself say.
His control snapped.
His mouth crashed down on hers, not with practiced artistry, but with a clumsy, consuming hunger. It was all teeth and tongue and a low, wounded sound from deep in his chest. His hands finally touched her, gripping her face, her hair, as if he were drowning.
She kissed him back with equal fury, biting his lip, her hands clawing at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. This wasn’t like before. This was a collision, a battle. All the shock, the jealousy, the raw fascination channeled into physical force.
He walked her backwards, never breaking the kiss, until her knees hit the edge of her bed. He yanked her sweater and shirt over her head in one motion. His mouth left hers to latch onto a nipple, sucking hard, almost painfully, through the lace of her bra. She cried out, arching into him.
“You watched,” he growled against her skin, his hands tearing at the button of her sweatpants. “You fucking watched other men have me.”
“Yes,” she gasped.
He shoved her pants and underwear down her legs, his fingers plunging into her without any preamble. She was so wet, so ready. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her. “And you got off on it.”
“I got off on you,” she panted, fumbling with his belt. “On your… your filth.”
He freed himself, his cock springing out, thick and throbbing and brutally real, not a prop under lights. He pushed her onto the bed, climbing over her, his eyes black with need.
“This isn’t a performance,” he snarled, positioning himself at her entrance. “You understand? Look at me.”
She did. She saw Jake, only Jake, stripped of every pretense.
He drove into her in one deep, merciless stroke, filling her completely, stealing the air from her lungs. It was intense, almost too much. A claiming.
“You want filth?” he breathed, his hips already setting a punishing rhythm. “I’ll give you filth. I’ll give you every dirty thing I know.”
He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing them back toward her shoulders, opening her up impossibly wide, sinking even deeper. The angle was devastating. Each thrust hit a spot that made her see white. She was sobbing, but not from pain. From an overload of sensation, of emotion, of pure, unraveling need.
“You see this?” he grunted, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. “This cock. It’s yours. It’s been in god knows where, but right now, it’s only yours. You feel that? Tell me you feel it.”
“I feel it,” she moaned, her body clamping down around him, on the verge of shattering.
“It’s not theirs. It’s yours.” He was losing his rhythm, his own climax looming. “Say it.”
“It’s mine,” she cried out.
“Fuck.” The word was a prayer and a curse. He slammed into her one last time, his body locking, a raw, ragged shout torn from his throat as he emptied himself deep inside her. The primal finality of it triggered her own release, a convulsive wave that clenched around him, milking every last pulse from him until she was boneless and spent.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a solid, grounding reality. Their hearts hammered a frantic, syncopated rhythm against each other. The only sound was their ragged breathing.
Slowly, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, keeping them joined. He pressed his forehead against her temple. His breath was hot on her skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the anger gone, only exhaustion and a vulnerable truth remaining. “For making you see that. For being what I am.”
She turned her head to look at him. In the dim light, he was just a man. Beautiful, complicated, damaged.
“Don’t be sorry for what you are,” she said softly, her fingers tracing the stubble on his jaw. “Just be here. With me. Now.”
He closed his eyes, a muscle flickering in his cheek. He held her tighter.
Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent. Inside, they were a tangled mess of sweat, confession, and spent passion. The problem hadn’t been solved. The world hadn’t righted itself. He was still Kade. She was still Alice.
But for now, in the dark, they were just two bodies clinging to a feeling that was terrifyingly, exclusively real. And that, for the moment, was enough to make the rest of it fade to a distant, manageable roar.