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Even with a mask on, the haunted house moment is the hottest thing that’s ever happened between us. Cameron knew me, and he wanted me. And I showed him how much I want him.

I stare at the screen, at Gwen’s profile picture, the picture of my sister who still lives in Charleston and has never met Cameron. It felt a little weird using her this way, but I don’t have access to anyone else’s pictures like I do hers. Her name really is Gwen. If he searches the internet, it will confirm everything she’s told him about herself, except where she attends college.

If things with Cameron are going to progress, I wonder how far I can push this. Video calls are risky, but not impossible. There’s AI software now that can generate realistic video from a single photo. I researched it weeks ago, bookmarked the links, but never quite committed.

I could buy another phone and use one of those AI voice generators to talk to him, feed it samples of women speaking, create something that sounds real enough. Cameron won’t know. Cameron can’t know.

The thought makes me hard.

I could have Cameron’s earnest voice in my ear. Could hear him say things, reveal his deepest thoughts and feelings, and respond in real time. No delay, no careful typing, just Cameron’s breath and my words and the fiction between us dissolving into something almost real.

Almost.

I throw the covers back and stand. The bedroom is cold, but I barely feel it. My body is already too warm, blood rushing south, and I need to move before I ruin more bedding.

I flick on the lights and catch my reflection in the mirror above the vanity of my ensuite.

I turn slightly, examining myself with the same critical eye I apply to everything. Broad shoulders, defined chest, the cut of my obliques visible even in the harsh lighting. I work for this body. Spend hours in the gym sculpting it into something that demands attention, commands respect. He might want my body, but his connection is with Gwen. She’s the one he confides in.

The bitterness rises like bile.

My hands curl into fists on the marble countertop.

Gwen gets to have him. The inner part of him.

It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. I’ve earned Cameron’s attention, spent years engineering our confrontations, making myself essential to his life even if it’s through violence. I’ve bled for Cameron. Made Cameron bleed for me.

And still, it’s Gwen who gets Cameron’s vulnerability. Gwen who gets his confessions.

I pick up my phone from where I set it on the counter and open Lure again.

My thumbs move before I can stop them.

Gwen

hey, thinking about you

I hit send and watch the message appear in our thread. Watch the time stamp update.

Nothing.

Not yet.

I set the phone down and turn toward the shower. The glass enclosure is already steaming slightly from the heated floors, and I reach in to turn the water on full blast.

I’m hard and aching from imagining Cameron’s voice in my ear saying I want you and meaning it, even if he doesn’t know who he’s really saying it to. Then I imagine Cameron’s body spread out, his teeth biting down on his greedy lip, and his hands wrapped around his cock, giving in to the temptation to make himself feel good. I want to believe he’s thinking of me when he does it.

I strip off my boxer briefs and step under the spray.

The water is punishing, exactly how I need it. I brace one hand against the tile and let my head fall forward.

My other hand drops lower.

I’ve spent years controlling every aspect of my life. My body, my reputation, my carefully constructed persona. I control my father’s expectations, control my frat brothers’ perceptions, control every interaction with Cameron to maximize impact.

But this, this I can’t control.

The want. The need. The way my body responds to even the thought of Cameron, the way my mind summons images I have no right to imagine.