I woke up gasping, sweat slick on my skin, my sheets tangled around my thighs like someone had been holding me down all night. My body felt too hot. My breath came in short bursts. My lips were parted. My chest ached. My thighs were clenched so tight it hurt. There was a slow, pulsing throb between my legs. Deep. Persistent. HUNGRY. I could still feel him. Not in my mind. Not in the air. In me. Inside my body. On my skin. In the heat that refused to leave.
My fingers slid down over my stomach, unthinking, searching. And when I touched myself, even just barely MY WHOLE BODY SHOOK. My breath caught. My thighs twitched. I was still wet. Not slightly. Not vaguely. WET LIKE I HAD JUST BEEN FUCKED. Like someone had touched me, kissed me, taken me. Like I had come. Maybe more than once. My nipples were hard, aching, oversensitive under the thin fabric. The kind of sensitivity that comes after release. Or after something deeper. SOMETHING FILLED.
I sat up slowly, but my body felt like it wanted to stay lying down, wanted to curl into the heat, dive back into the fire. My sheets were damp. My skin tingled. I couldn't deny it. I didn't want to. I didn't even feel guilty. What scared me most wasn't what I'd dreamed. It was how much I wanted to dream it again.
My eyes drifted to the mirror. I looked wrecked. My lips were red, slightly swollen. There were faint marks on my neck. Not imagined. Not hallucinated. They were THERE. Faint, like leftover bruises from someone's mouth. Or fingers. My hair was tangled. My face flushed. I looked like someone who had been taken. HARD. AGAINST HER WILL, OR WORSE WITH IT.
I swallowed.
It was a dream. It had to be. It didn't make sense. I didn't leave the party. I didn't walk into that room. I didn't sit in that chair. I didn't turn on that camera. I didn't call him.
My heart stopped.
THE CALL.
I grabbed my phone.
Unlocked it with shaking hands. Checked the call log.
1:13 AM – 37 minutes – ACTIVE CALL HIS NAME.
No. No. No.
I clicked.
There was a video preview. I didn't want to see it.
I HAD TO.
I pressed play.
At first, it was dark. Nothing. Silence. Then movement. A sound.
My voice.
Low. Breathless. Moaning.
Then light. A body. A shape.
Me.
Straddling someone. Moving. Writhing. My head thrown back. My fingers digging into his chest. My body rocking against his.
It was real.
IT WAS FUCKING REAL.
I had done it. I had fucked another man. While my boyfriend watched. Live. On the call I never ended. On a screen that stayed open. I had looked wild. Consumed. I hadn't looked scared. I hadn't said no. I had GROANED. I had BEGGED. I had COME.
And now the only thing I could feel was that I wanted it again.
My body hadn't moved. My hand was still clutching the phone. My chest rose and fell in a rhythm that didn't belong to calm. It belonged to chaos. To lust. To memory. And to the knowledge that somewhere he had seen it. My boyfriend. The man I was supposed to love.
HE HAD SEEN EVERYTHING.
EVERY ARCH. EVERY MOAN.
EVERY THRUST THAT WASN'T HIS.
And the worst part?
I LIKED IT.
I FUCKING LOVED IT.