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“And what did you think?” he enunciates, almost like he’s literally spelling it out for me. He leans back, waiting.

I consider.

“Effective.”

“Effective.” He rumbles with a laugh. “Okay.”

Before I have time to react, he spins around in his chair, taps a few keys, and swipes his mouse through a screen or two with one hand while lifting a pair of headphones from their stand with the other.

His profile, I see now. His content.

Then he spins around, the angles of his cheeks and jaw lit sharply from the bluish glow of his screen, the rows of thumbnails of him, again and again and again, shirtless, faceless, every angle, every way, and fixes me with those eyes.

“Pick one.”

I frown. “What do you⁠—”

Instead of answering, he gets up, strides right in front of me, and clamps the headphones over my head. Then he lifts the right side, just enough to lean in and whisper in my ear.

“Pick. One.” Pause. “Or I’ll pick for you.”

Oh. I can feel the color rising over my chest, my neck, my face, and yet—and yet I’m not embarrassed, knowing he can see, can tell. I sort of…like that he can.

So I lick my lips and consider the screen full of thumbnails. No bad options, I have to think. All of them made right here, acted and recorded just a few steps from my own bedroom, maybe even while I was there. Oblivious, willfully or otherwise, to what he was doing.

I lower the headphones.

“You remember making all of these?” I ask.

Blue nods. I nod back, and put the headphones in place again.

“Then pick the time you came the hardest.”

Immediately, I settle back on the couch, not allowing myself a chance to second-guess what I can’t believe I actually just said. And Blue doesn’t protest. Just obeys. Returns to the screen, scrolls, considers. And clicks.

You’re making me crazy, baby. Did you know that?

His voice fills my ears, my head, my mind, warm and close as if he’s right there—but he is right there, this time, kissing my neck, kissing my chest, pushing me gently but firmly onto my back.

Absolutely fucking crazy.

Onscreen, I watch his head fall back in a long moan of pleasure.

Here, in real life, he watches me.

And I don’t know what he sees, if he notices my breathing getting faster or my pupils dilating or what, but in three quick strides he’s next to me, over me, his arms bracketing my sides.

“You liked that.” He shifts to one hand and swirls the hard tip of his thumb over my breast, dragging the cotton over my nipple.

I can only nod. No words. Only his voice⁠—

Fuck, baby. I’m gonna have to stroke my cock.

Blue, the real Blue, the flesh and blood one, has one broad palm pressed flat against my stomach as the other skims its way under my waistband, my panties—and these ones are panties, I remember, properly, sheer and lacy, a pair the girls picked out for me. Panties that are meant to be seen by someone else.

Touched by someone else.

I feel his fingertips meet lace and watch his eyes flicker.