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Smiling widely beside Violet.

Holding up a coffee.

Stopping traffic and helping a mother and her baby ducks cross the road.

Lying on a sandy beach in a white bikini that showed so much skin, I felt jealous. Which is stupid.

But then I think about her bedroom.

Her eyes on mine as she sucked my dick.

The way she was so wet for me when I touched her.

How tight she felt when I was inside her.

With a groan, my hand wraps around my hard, throbbing cock.

Replaying that night, I stroke myself, pretending it’s her hand. Her mouth. Her pussy.

I’m deep into the fantasy, teetering on the edge of control.

That’s not me.

I’m calm. Cool. Collected.

Yet, within a couple of minutes, I lose control.

Breathing heavily, I shake my head, feeling foolish.

Beating off to porn is one thing.

It’s quite another when it’s someone I’ve slept with. Someone whose Instagram I was just stalking.

It’s fine. It’s just because I’m stuck inside this cabin.

Once I leave town, this will all just be a distant memory.

I sit on the couch in sweatpants, my hair still damp from the shower.

I look at my phone.

Don’t do it.

It’s like my fingers have a mind of their own.

I’m scrolling through Callie’s Instagram photos again. Only this time, I’m carefully reading the captions. The comments. Paying attention to who consistently hearts her posts.

I even end up on the Obsidian Designs account. For research, of course.

Apparently, Callie’s good at what she does. Really fucking good.

There are authors thanking her for launches, increased engagement, and branding campaigns. Clients praising her eye for design and social media savviness.

I find a video of her talking about some marketing strategy I don’t understand. I watch the entire thing anyway.

Then I watch it again. Not because I give a shit about marketing. I like listening to her talk.

Fuck.