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I can’t help that the timing is all wrong. Am I really going to let this opportunity go? Let her go?

“Ah, fuck it.” I snatch up the phone.

It turns out I have zero self-preservation when it comes to Sophia. She’s my pretty pink poison. I will get on my knees, tip my head back, and take whatever love potion she pours down my throat, and then I will thank her and ask for more. I’m that smitten with my little pink hell kitten.

Before I talk myself out of it, quick thumbs type a caption tailored specifically for her:

I’m offering pineapple-eating lessons. Volunteers?

Because I’m classy, I add a tongue emoji and a squirt emoji. Then, because I want Sophia to know the message is for her, I add the sparkle, cat, and fire emojis and pray she speaks the cryptic language of emoji.

Between the video, the music pairing, and my caption, my followers will go apeshit. Sophia, on the other hand, may never see it since she rarely touches her phone.

Putting the post out there is enough to take the horny edge off. At least, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself. I release an exaggerated breath and scan the kitchen for something else to do besides pining over a woman who loathes me.

Let’s be real, though. If there’s even a chance to manifest adding Sophia to my menu the way I’ve just dreamed about, I will do whatever it takes. Anything. Hell, I’ll have Tina lock us in the pantry again. It’s not beneath me.

I stop myself before my mind goes there. It’ll only work me up.

Stepping onto the back deck, I peel off my clothes and kick them aside. Under the moonlight, I dive into the pool. It’s a poor substitute for Sophia’s body, but I have steam to burn. After I break the water’s surface and come up for air, I slick back my drenched hair.

If my dick doesn’t take a break, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hand. Once that starts, it’ll be its own marathon. Finishing would only mean I’d be ready to go again seconds later, thinking about her.

Instead, I swim laps. One arm at a time breaks the surface as I kick my feet. Turning my face to the sky, I inhale, exhale, and think way too much about her, about us, about how I can make her like me, or even hate me more. Any attention from Sophia is good attention.

Maybe I really am a masochist.

I’ve become stuck in a game of what-ifs. What if I held her naked in my arms, felt her bare and perfect body against mine, with her nipples scraping my skin? What if I got to suck them and flick them with my tongue?

What if. What if!

Fuck. I’m making things worse. Why can’t I stop pining?

Pull it together numb-nuts! If only I could numb my nuts.

I flip, press my feet off the wall, and rocket through the water in the opposite direction. Surfacing, I begin a new lap. This time, I swim faster. Harder. If I’m not careful with my thoughts, I’ll blow my sea monkeys all over this goddamn pool.

After a mile of laps, I bob in the water and study Sophia’s window. It’s aglow with a dim blue light, like she’s on her phone. Because I’m hyper-eager to find out if I can place her squarely in the fruit category, I swim to the pool’s edge and reach for mine.

As predicted, the views of my new post have skyrocketed. My fans are loving it. But the most welcome sight is a comment from @SinfulSophia.

“Sinful Sophia? She’s killing me,” I mumble, holding my breath as I read her response.

I nominate #angrybride as tribute.

Wink emoji. Sparkle emoji. Fire emoji. Cat emoji.

Double Knife emoji. Blood emoji. Skull emoji.

I chuckle. My stabby little hell kitten.

My grin spreads wide. Teeth sink into my bottom lip as my mind races around all the ways I will make her come on my hand, riding my thigh and on my face. No part of me doesn’t want to create friction and fire with her. Then we will fucking stop, drop, and roll in our juices to extinguish them.

My victory is short-lived though. My lips turn down when I look closer at the number of likes beside her response.

Oh shit. Oh no. Oh fuck.

My gaze pings between her now darkened room and the eleven hundred likes beside her response. The number increases before my eyes, flipping over like a slot machine that won’t stop spinning.