Of course she does

I lunged for my dresser, yanking out a white vest so thin it bordered on transparent and a denim skirt Bella had once joked was “more belt than skirt.” The mirror caught my reflection—chest heaving, pupils blown—as I twisted to check the angle. Bed? Too identifiable. Ensuite? Towels monogrammed with Sarah’s initials. I kicked my laundry pile aside and crouched by the window seat, afternoon light striping my thighs as I raised my phone. Portrait mode blurred the shelves behind into abstraction, the focus locking onto the jut of my hipbone where I’d tugged the skirt an inch lower.

The shutter clicked. I barely recognized the girl onscreen—lips parted, fingers splayed possessively over her own stomach like she was holding something back.

I added a second shot: one strap of the vest tugged down to expose the swell of lace cupping my breast, nail polish stark against flushed skin. *Proof enough?* I echoed his words, hitting send before I could reconsider.

His typing bubbles appeared instantly. Then vanished. The silence stretched, taut as the fabric straining over his cock in that photo. When his reply came, it was a single word: *Christ.* The punctuation felt like fingertips dragging down my spine. Another message loaded—slower, deliberate: *You’re killing me.* Not *who are you?* Not *is this Felicity?* Just raw, unfiltered hunger. The realization coiled hot in my stomach: he didn’t know. The anonymity thrilled more than I’d anticipated.

My thumbs moved with precision: *You started it.* A beat. Then, softer: *Sir.* The honorific seared the screen. His typing bubbles convulsed, stopped, then exploded into a torrent: *That mouth. Fuck. Bet you’d look even prettier with my cock between those lips.*