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On-screen, Clint says, “You guys are pushy tonight.”

His voice is different than it was at the party. Still him, but turned and coated in butter.

He looks at the camera as if he knows exactly where every pair of eyes will land.

I should close the laptop.

Instead, I sit very still with my gray blanket over my lap.

Clint shifts, knees parting slightly. The sheet slips, bunches around his crotch. The movement isn’t rushed. It isn’t shy, either. It’s controlled in a way that makes me furious because I recognize the control.

He reads a message and grins.

“No, not yet,” he says. “You gotta earn that.”

I do not want to know.

I absolutely want to know.

Heat moves through me, unwanted but undeniable. I press one hand flat against my thigh under the blanket. Through the fabric, I can feel my body responding.

The chat moves faster. A tip sound chimes.

Clint’s eyes flick toward it.

“Better,” he says.

The praise is not directed at me. None of this is directed at me. I am invisible, one blank username among strangers, a man sitting in a dark room while rain hammers the windows. But I feel it when he moves, when he speaks.

Clint reaches for something off-screen. I see only the motion of his arm, the flex of his shoulder, the line of muscle across his chest. He comes back with a bottle of lube and sets it beside him.

My breath stops.

“No,” I say softly.

Not to him. Not even to myself exactly. More to the ghost of my ability to regulate my intentions.

On-screen, Clint smiles at the chat.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m in charge now.”

I shift on the couch, and the blanket moves. That small movement seems enormous. I look toward the door, absurdly, as if Renny might be standing there. As if Jessica might walk in. As if the dogs might report me.

No one is there. Only me, with one hand still pressed to my thigh and the other hovering near the edge of the blanket.

And Clint, too big and bright on the screen, and that infuriating sheet strategically falling inch by inch.

The thought sneaks through the gaps in my resistance: I could touch myself.

Just loosen my belt.

Just relieve pressure.

Just enough to stop thinking of his hand at his waistband, his body by the pool, his voice saying I’m in charge to a room full of men who have paid for the fantasy.

My fingers move.

Lightning flashes white across the windows.