“Holy shit,” Danica whispers, staring at something on her phone at the other end of the check-in counter. “Abby, you’ve got to see this.”

I don’t look up from my textbook, as usual. No offense to my darling Danica Reynolds and her never-ending search for porny distractions at work, but I don’t have time to gawk at man meat right now, especially not when we’ve finally reached The Dead Zone portion of our shift, the much-appreciated two- to three-hour window when nothing ever happens and I can finally study without interruption.

“Abby,” Danica persists. “You’ve got to see this.”

“Babe, I’ve got to get through this reading assignment before starting on the checkout folios.”

“Bah, studying can wait. I’m looking at Lucas Ford over here.”

My head jerks up from my textbook like a golden retriever whose owner just threw a stick. If there’s one man on the planet who could lure me away from studying about wrongful termination under the Civil Rights Act of 1964, it’s the sexiest rock star on the planet. The man whose face decorated my teenage walls ten years ago. Lucas Ford.

But, no, I really shouldn’t take a peek.

I look back down at my book.

Being able to get some solid studying done at work was the sole reason I agreed to be assigned to the God-awful night shift at this hotel in the first place, and I can’t afford to waste optimal study time gawking at men, even if the man in question happens to be my teenage fantasy. Okay, yeah, my fifteen-year-old self is punching me in the proverbial balls right now for not taking a peek at the photo on Danica’s phone, but the stressed-out twenty-four-year-old I’ve become has bigger fish to fry than giving my inner teenager a lady-boner. “I’ve got to study,” I mutter, continuing to look down at my textbook.

“You’re such a prude.” Danica chastises me, but her tone is affectionate. “Live a little for once, Abby. Take a walk on the wild side.”

I smirk to myself. Oh, Danica. I love her and I know she loves me. But she only knows the version of me who’s worked here for the past two years. If she’d known me five years ago when I was a human grenade, she’d never in a million years dream of telling me to walk on the wild side.

“Lucas Ford is playing tomorrow night at the arena,” Danica says, still staring at her phone. “The show’s sold out but I bet you could score tickets online. He’s one of your favorites, right?”

“Yeah. I’d love to go, but I’m working tomorrow night. Aren’t you off tomorrow night? You should go.”

“No, I picked up an extra shift from Tammy. I’m still trying to save up to help my mom.” She sighs. “I’m bummed. I’ve never seen Lucas Ford in concert. It’s definitely on my bucket list.”

“Oh, he’s phenomenal. I saw him nine or ten years ago, right when ‘Shattered Hearts’ first came out, and he absolutely slayed it. The minute he started playing the opening guitar riff, I burst into tears, even before he started singing.”

“Ha! I would have done exactly the same thing back then. Actually, I’d probably burst into tears today. That’s still my all-time favorite song.”

“Mine, too.”

She snickers. “I lost my virginity to it.”

“Really? Did you choose the song or did the guy?”

“The guy, but only because he knew I loved it. It would have been a fantastic memory for me if only he’d lasted past the first chorus.”

We both guffaw at that.

Of course, if I were a normal girl who chatted breezily with her girlfriends about sex, now would probably be the perfect moment to tell Danica about how I gave myself my first orgasm at the tender age of fifteen while listening to “Shattered Hearts” and staring longingly at its creator’s twenty-year-old face on my bedroom wall. But, of course, since I’m not a normal girl, I’ve set certain non-negotiable rules for myself to keep my life on track. And one of those is never to talk about sex at work. Not even with Danica. Which means I keep my mouth firmly shut.

I look down at my textbook again and try to concentrate, but Danica’s loud snickering as she stares at her phone is awfully hard to ignore. I look at her again and sigh. “Are you still looking at that same photo of Lucas Ford or have you moved on to Jamie Dornan or Charlie Hunnam now?”

“I’m still looking at Lucas Ford. And it’s not his photo. It’s a video.” She smiles broadly. “A sex tape, actually.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“It got leaked tonight,” Danica continues, barely containing a giggle. “And lemme just say, all those rumors about Lucas Ford having an extremely large package? They’re all true.”

I feel color rise in my cheeks. I look around to confirm nobody’s entering the empty lobby at this particular moment. “You can see his dick in the video?” I whisper.

“Every inch. At the beginning of the sex tape, Lucas walks right in front of the camera, completely naked, like he’s a peacock showing off, and you can see everything—dick, balls, tattoos, his eight-pack. The whole nine yards. And then, two seconds later, he starts screwing his girlfriend from behind and you can totally see his hard-on sliding in and out of her and his balls swinging. Good stuff.”

My cheeks are flooding with heat. And so is my crotch.

Danica smiles slyly. “Come see the show, Abby…if you dare.”

I shouldn’t do it. How many times did Dr. Carlson warn me off watching porn back in the day? “It’s a trigger for you, Abby,” she always used to say. “And you need to avoid triggers at all costs.”

“Holy hell,” Danica says. “That’s a beautiful dick.”

I bite my lip. Maybe I should make an exception to my rules, just this once. I haven’t had a problem in years and I’m a grown-ass woman now, not a teenager with zero impulse control. Surely, one little peek at my favorite rock star bonin’ his girlfriend in a video isn’t going to send me spiraling into the hinterlands of hell.

I close my textbook and lurch down the short length of the check-in counter until I’m literally draped over Danica’s shoulder, looking at her phone. “Start it from the beginning, baby.”

Danica squeals, obviously enthralled at my uncharacteristic willingness to partake in her favorite pastime, and she quickly restarts the video.

And…I’m…instantly enthralled by what I see.

“Holy moly,” I whisper. “That’s quite a dick.”

Danica giggles. “Told ya.”

“He’s absolutely beautiful.”

Mr. Rock Star is standing before the camera, naked and fully erect, every square inch of him on glorious display from head to toe, while a buxom blonde bends over what looks like a hotel bed behind him, her thighs spread, her fingers unmistakably working herself between her legs.

After pumping on his hard dick a few times, Lucas strides to the blonde, his muscles taut, and takes over the job of fingering her.

A half-minute later, the woman cries out from apparent pleasure, which prompts Lucas to fist her blond hair, slide that massive dick of his inside her, and begin screwing her to within an inch of her life.

“Whoa,” I whisper.

“No smoke and mirrors here, folks,” Danica whispers back. “This is definitely not a simulation.”

I clutch my chest. My heart’s beating so hard, I feel like I’m going to pass out. “He’s…” But I don’t finish my sentence. Gorgeous? Spectacular? A fantasy come to life? Any of these descriptors would be accurate, but none of them would do him justice.

“He’s a beast,” Danica says, finishing my sentence for me. “Look how hard he’s pulling on her hair. Good lord.”

“I don’t think she minds,” I whisper back, my heart and clit pounding in equal measure.

“Lucky bitch,” Danica whispers. “I’d pay my life savings to have that man fuck me like that.”

“Your life savings amounts to about three dollars and eighty-seven cents,” I whisper, my eyes still trained on the video.

“Yeah, and Lucas Ford can have it all!”

We both giggle.

“Jesus, he’s fucking the living hell out of her, isn’t he?” Danica says. “Lucky, lucky bitch.”

“Yeah, she definitely seems…” I say, but I trail off again mid-sentence, too distracted by what’s happening onscreen. Namely, while still screwing the blonde, Lucas Ford has just turned his head and is looking straight at the camera…and he’s not looking away.

Hot damn, he’s giving me goose bumps with that unwavering stare of his. Of course, intellectually, I know Lucas and the blonde are alone in that hotel room and he’s staring at nothing but a mounted camera, but it sure feels like he’s staring right at his audience, getting off on the idea of people watching him. And, honestly, that’s a massive turn-on to me.

“Happy,” Danica says.

“Huh?” I reply, my clit throbbing.

“She definitely seems happy,” Danica says, finishing my last sentence.

“Oh. Yeah.” I clear my throat. “She sure does.”

“She’s a real bitch for leaking the video.” Danica sniffs. “I heard she got paid a million bucks by some tabloid. Bitch.”

I mumble something incoherent, too entranced to speak. Surely, this precise image is the one I’ll call to mind every time I touch myself for the rest of my life. Lucas Ford’s piercing dark eyes staring into mine as his massive glistening cock slides in and out of another woman’s pussy, his fist buried in her hair, his beautiful muscles tensing and releasing with each beastly thrust.

“He’s so hot,” Danica breathes.

I nod my agreement but remain mute. Lucas is about to come in the video—I can feel it—and I don’t want to be chatting casually with Danica when he does. No, when Lucas experiences euphoria, I want to be able to give him my undivided attention. Because as turned on as I’m feeling right now, I’m going to come right along with him.

“Oh, fuck,” Lucas suddenly blurts in the video. He pulls out of the blonde, spins her around, and pushes her roughly onto the bed, a maneuver that makes her very large breasts jiggle wildly.

I lean into the screen, holding my breath, my lower abdomen tight and aching for release, and watch as Lucas grabs his massive, straining cock like a fire hose, glowers over the woman’s torso, and—

The video abruptly ends.

“No!” Danica stage-whispers, taking the word right out of my mouth. She taps on her screen violently, obviously thinking there’s been some kind of glitch. But, nope, the video’s over. “Damn it!” Danica says. “We don’t get to see Lucas Ford’s happy ending? Talk about lady-blue-balls.” She laughs.

But I can’t laugh with Danica. Hell no. An aching, throbbing, unrelieved clit isn’t what I’d call a comedic situation. “Excuse me,” I say curtly, striding around the front desk and beelining toward the restrooms on the far side of the lobby.

“Aw, why you always got to be such a prude, Abigail Medford?” she calls after me playfully as I stride away. “You can’t watch a sex tape once in your life without feeling guilty about it?” She laughs. “Poor, poor Abby. Always thinks she’s going to hell.”

Without replying to Danica, I enter the restrooms, head straight into a stall, pull down my panties, and finger my aching, swollen clit until I come. And I do, hard, in all of about twelve seconds flat.