The worst part about my situation in that exact moment was that it wasn’t just a poster anymore. He wasn’t just a face on my wall. I’d touched him, spoken to him, felt the heat in his eyes and the way his voice dipped when he said my name in that stupidly sexy accent.
This wasn’t a fantasy anymore.
It was aproblembecause CallumFraser’s attention was fleeting. That was just who he was. I had to be okay with that.
I rolled over, grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it and pulled up his social media on my private account. Scrolled past the polished, PR-friendly posts—the podium celebrations, the sponsor deals, the curated image of a world champion.
At some point I wound up in his tagged photos and stumbled upona different account. His private one. I hesitated. Would he notice? Would he care?
Before I could think too hard about it, I hit follow. A second later, my screen lit up.
Follow request accepted.
My heart flipped.Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I scrolled slowly. These pictures were different. Candid. The golden haze of a racetrack at sunset. A blurry photo of a night out. A black-and-white shot of Monaco from a balcony overlooking the marina, captioned with something sarcastic. It felt real.
And then, the worst part: a selfie. A completely unfair, sweaty, post-workout selfie. Messy hair—shorter than it was now, damp at the edges. A cocky smirk. Shirtless.
I froze.
His shoulders were broad and gleaming, veins visible down one bicep. His abs were so defined they looked carved out of marble, and his grey sweats hungsolow on his hips it should’ve been illegal. I pinched the screen and zoomed in.
The waistband of his underwear was visible—Armani, of course—framed by that ridiculous V of muscle leading straight down. And then I saw it.
The outline.
Thick. Heavy. Pressed against the fabric like it was straining to be noticed.
Oh my God.
It was basically porn.
I blinked.
I probably gasped.
Hell, I might’ve sighed like I’d just read the steamiest smut scene of my life and accidentally starred in it.
My mouth went dry.
My skin burned.
My thighs clenched as though they had a mind of their own.
Heat was already blooming low in my stomach, thick and insistent.
Maybe I was ovulating. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why my whole body had just thrown itself at the altar of this man’s groin like I needed to be exorcised.
I stared for another second. Maybe three. Okay, definitely longer.
Then I zoomed in again.
My hand tightened around the phone.
I tried to scroll. Really, I did. My thumb hovered, twitching like itwantedto behave. But then it dragged right back to the photo and zoomed in again.
I made a strangled noise.Alone in my bedroom of my fucking parents' estate.
