Pulling up his Instagram, he has one new picture on his feed. It’s a picture of one of those hairless cats he talked about wanting on top of moving boxes. The caption says: “Houston and I are finally getting all settled in Texas!”

Houston?!

Like… Whitney?

No. No, that can’t be it. Could it?

My heart is suddenly pounding so hard in my chest, I can hear it in my ears. That has to be a weird coincidence. There’s no fucking way he named his cat after an artist he used to tease me about for listening to.

I use my fake Instagram account to scroll mindlessly through his stories that he’s posted today—his usual, daily before work swim picture, a sunset picture from somewhere I don’t recognize, and a picture of his cat lying beside his MacBook on his bed—while my mind keeps spinning and obsessing over the name of his damn cat. I need to fucking know.

The oven timer goes off, startling me out of my thoughts. Probably for the best. I eat dinner, then spend the rest of the evening in my gym, working out and trying—but failing—to keep my mind off Cash. By the time I shower and fall into bed, I’m not less frustrated—sexually and otherwise—than I was before.

The lights are off, phone is plugged into the charger, and the fan is on. I’m wide fucking awake. The memories of Cash and me playing on repeat through my head like a home video. It’s been like this every single night since he started last Monday. My cock is painfully hard inside my boxers, and I’m fighting the urge to wrap my hand around it to put me out of my misery.

Since he’s arrived, I’ve refused to let myself jack off to him, to memories of us. I have the worst case of blue balls in the fucking history. My nuts fucking ache with the need to drain, and every brush of fabric threatens to bring on an erection. My mind goes back to the time in my home office when he kneeled for me like such a good fucking boy. The way he looked—naked, hungry, big, dark, doe eyes staring up at me, waiting to do whatever it was that would please me. And fuckkk, did he fucking please me alright.

Without my permission, my hand snakes underneath the covers, beneath the waistband of my underwear, until I’m palming my hot, hard length. A hiss escapes me as my eyes roll back. Fuck, even minimal contact feels fucking amazing after a week without anything. Visions of him with my cock rammed down his throat as his eyes cry for me, play behind my eyelids as I stroke myself with fervor.