“ And… we’re clear.”

Dominic’s voice was flat, devoid of the honeyed encouragement he used during the paid stream. The words sliced through the syrupy, fake-moan atmosphere I’d spent the last hour curating. The crew, two guys I barely knew, started breaking down the main camera and lights with practiced efficiency, their gazes carefully averted from my nearly-naked body on the chaise lounge.

I let my head fall back against the red velvet, the cheap lace of the G-string digging into the sweat-slick skin of my hips. The heat was oppressive, a combination of halogen bulbs and the stifling air of a windowless studio.

“Thank fuck,” I muttered, swinging my...