Gently touching the photo, I pull up the names of the people Hudson has tagged himself.
@Noah_Millen
@BlakeMillen91
@GreyMillen
@DelilahClark_1
Oh.
Feeling silly for not having noticed it sooner, I peer at the high resolute photo again. It’s obvious now; the three other mensurrounding Hudson must be his brothers. They each have a shock of brown hair and varying degrees of green eyes. Two of the brothers, Blake and Grey, I click again to see their names, could pass as twins.
Using the handy tag Hudson has supplied for stalkers like me, I press down on the only woman in the photo – Delilah Clark.
I try not to be too disappointed when her account shows up as private.
Back on the original picture, I try Grey’s tag, something in my back of my mind jolting, as if it’s an old, only half remembered, memory, trying to piece itself together. Something about the name Grey seems familiar…
The memory comes into full focus as Grey’s social media pages loads.
Of course.
Grey Millen – the great British swimming athlete.
If I remember correctly, he was on his way to the Olympics before he was involved in an awful freak accident at a skiing resort in which he broke his legs and fucked up a ton of ligaments. The details are a bit blurry to me because I was only a kid myself when it happened, but I recall seeing his face splashed across the nightly news. The British press had accused him of being drunk and taking drugs whilst at the resort, hence his delayed reaction response when he was thrown off the ski lift and into a patch of black ice beyond.
He had to pull out of the Olympics due to his sustained injuries. Only later on, did reports show the swimmer had no drugs or alcohol in his system whatsoever, and his accident was completely at the fault of the ski lift company.
He must still swim, albeit not competitively, because a few of his photos show him in the water. The others are taken up withthe same smiling curvy brunette girl from Hudson’s original photograph, who I’m guessing must be Grey’s girlfriend.
Switching back to Hudson’s profile, and feeling more like a stalker by the second, I can’t help myself from swiping along so see his tagged photos, even if my gut warns me not too.
As soon as I see the first three, I wish I hadn’t.
If I thought the comments beneath Hudson’s photos were bad, then I’m in for a world of mixed emotions now I’m looking at photosofhim, rather than taken by him.
He has a different girl hanging from his arm in almost every photograph.
Blondes, brunettes, redheads; it doesn’t seem Hudson has a specific type. As long as she has a pulse and is pretty, then he seems content – according to the photos, at least. He’s not smiling in a single one, but his body language tells a different story, with his arms around their tiny waists, his hands slipping dangerously close to the hem of their short, bodycon dresses.
In one particular snap, he has his hand splayed out across a girl’s neck, holding her in place while he bends to meet her in a lip lock. Her eyes are closed, whilst his are open. Strange.
Still, the position makes my blood run hot, a phantom ghost playing over my own, slightly chapped lips, reminding me exactly how it feels to be kissed like that.
I close my eyes on instinct, the imagine ofmyface being replaced with the nameless woman in that photo,mebeing held so possessively in Hudson’s grip, his to do as he pleases, popping up before I can stop it.
Fuck.
My core pulses with want.
The thrum of desire I’d felt when I’d watched him from across the other side of the gym and found myself beginning to get wet, returns tenfold.
Fuck it.
He never has to know.
Rising up onto my knees, I shove my mug of tea onto the windowsill so I can have both of my hands free. I shimmy out of my gym leggings, and pull my sports bra up and over my head. With index finger and thumb, I pluck at one of my hardening nipples, whimpering as that familiar electric shock of pleasure ripples through my body.
