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At the back of my closet, I pushed aside a stack of sweaters I’d layered on top for extra privacy and pulled a box down. As soon as I got the journal out, I found a pen and sat on the edge of the bed, flipping to the next blank page. This was the only place I could be honest. And lately, getting my thoughts out—messy, unfiltered, sometimes ugly—was the only thing that kept them from taking over my day.

It’s Cara, not Sarah.

I underlined Cara three times, pressing hard enough that the pen nearly tore through the page. I stared at it for a few seconds, and then wrote:

How the fuck are even his hands sexy?

I chewed on the top of the pen for a while.

Big palms. Long fingers.

I sucked in a breath and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push unwanted thoughts away.

It didn’t work.

My hand moved steadily across the page.

What would they feel like inside me?

My pulse kicked up, and the words started spilling out faster than I could write them.

Long fingers.

Fingering.

Fingering me.

God he’s hot.

I think about him at night.

I feel him downstairs.

Beneath me.

My breathing grew heavy.

I shouldn’t be thinking these thoughts.

But the words kept coming.

I want to be beneath him.

My chest rose and fell.

Last night when Calder was inside me, I closed my eyes.

My stomach twisted.

I pictured Rafe.

Instead of my boyfriend.

Heat flooded my face.

And I came harder than I ever had.

I dropped the pen for a second, my knee bobbing up and down.