Hold on. Swan typed to Haylie and tapped more keys. A woman’s laugh bloomed in his ear buds and he linked Haylie into the voice channel so she could hear the handsome lord and the wicked bandit on the screen.

“Jesus,” Lord Wimsleydale panted, removing his breastplate. “I can’t wait.”

Monika’s player gasped and Swan imagined her fingers in her pussy. He had seen pictures of Monika in real life on a fansite. If the pictures really weren’t lies, she was a full-figured, intense-looking redhead in her late twenties with nice breasts and a smile that could melt ice cream. Her on-screen avatar was a redhead too, and her breasts were equally impressive as were her hips and the arch of her back. She was a romantic paperback cover brought to digital life as she disrobed down to her unremovable underwear, protection against the moral outrage of parents and Grand Theft Auto ambulance-chasing lawyers. Lord Wimsleydale stripped to his black jockey shorts and the two perfect bodies stood as close to each other as they could.

“My hand is on your breast,” the male voice on the Shout Link breathed. “I’m rolling your nipple between my thumb and my fingers, and my other hand tests your pussy, tracing the lips. Are you wet?”

“I am,” the redhead’s voice echoed the words bubbled above the digital avatar’s head, “wet for you. My fingernails rake your chest, downward, almost tickling the hard muscle of your stomach. I bury my fingers in the tangle of your pubes, but I don’t touch your cock. No,” she purred. “Not yet.”