Page 11 of Carnival Shadows

These moments are mine. My secret. My obsession. Every detail feeds the growing hunger inside me—a hunger that’s far from professional curiosity. I want to know everything about him. Every habit, every expression, every dark thought behind those intense brown eyes.

I wait until I’m certain Remy is busy with the fence inspection before slipping toward his trailer. Adrenaline floods my veins as I pick the lock—a skill learned from years of “research” for my podcast. The door creaks open and I slide inside, heart thundering.

His scent hits me first—a mix of cedar and a musk unique to him, making my knees weak. The trailer is sparsely furnished but meticulously organized. Everything has its place. I run my fingers along his dresser, imagining his hands touching these surfaces.

My gaze falls on his laundry hamper in the corner. Pulse racing, I lift the lid—on top lies a pair of dark boxer briefs. I lift them with trembling fingers, bringing them to my face. His scent is stronger, more potent. A soft moan escapes my lips as I imagine him peeling them off his powerful body.

I want to see all of him, taste him, and watch his face as pleasure overtakes him. The intensity of my craving for him should frighten me. Instead, it feeds the depravity I try so hard to hide.

Footsteps crunch on the gravel outside. I freeze, clutching his underwear, heart in my throat. They pass by. Still, I need to leavebefore I push my luck too far. I carefully put everything back exactly as I found it, erasing all traces of my presence.

My breath is shallow as I scan his space, my heart pounding like a snare drum. I’m dying for more, hungry to glimpse his private thoughts. Then I spot it; Remy’s laptop, open on the small table.

Hesitation wars with obsession. I bite my lip, glancing toward the door. Remy could return anytime, but I can’t waste this opportunity.

I approach the table slowly and run my fingers over the laptop, surprised when it springs to life. A rush of adrenaline courses through my veins as I realize it’s not password-protected. My own laptop is protected with a fingerprint ID and a complicated password. At the same time, this one contains heaven knows what for my eyes to devour.

My gaze scans the desktop, taking in the neat arrangement of files. My pulse races as I spot a folder simply labeled “Selfies.” My eyes widen, and my breath hitches.

Selfies?

He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to snap selfies.

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I can’t help but lean forward, my fingers poised over the touchpad. With one swipe, the folder opens, revealing a small collection of files.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. But then, it hits me like a jolt of electricity. I’m staring at a series of dick pics. Intimate, explicit photos of Remy naked. My mouth goes dry as my eyes widen, drinking in the sight. Click. My camera captures the images. Click, click.

I can’t stop myself from scrolling through them, my breath catching in my throat. His body is as powerful as I imagined and covered in tattoos, every muscle and angle perfectly defined. I imagine my own hands on him, my lips, my tongue. The fantasyoverwhelms me, and without thinking, I reach down, desperate for release.

I close my eyes, my fingers moving of their own volition as I pull off my panties, placing them on the desk.

How would it feel to have him touch me? Kiss me? Pleasure me?

My arousal is instant and overwhelming. I bite my lip to stifle a moan as I picture his mouth on my neck, trailing lower, his skilled hands branding me as his own.

My imagination takes over, and my fantasies become more daring. It doesn’t take long for the tension to build; my breath turns labored as my fingers move faster, and my need becomes urgent.

I let out a low, throaty moan, unable to hold it back any longer. The sound surprises me because it’s shaky and has a raspy edge. The fantasy is too much, too good, and I quickly spiral into oblivion. My body shudders in release, but still, I don’t stop.

I open my eyes, needing to see him, needing more. My fingers linger on the screen, touching the image of his thick, engorged cock, imagining the weight of it against my tongue. I want to make him lose control, and I need to see him fall apart.

The fantasy takes on a life of its own, fueling my actions. The sensations intensify, coiling tighter and tighter until I break apart again, my breathless cry echoing through the quiet trailer. It takes a moment to realize I’ve shouted his name, and I immediately clamp my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide as my dress falls back over my lower half.

My heart is pounding, my body weak and satiated, but even as guilt threatens to wash over me, I can’t stop staring at the photos.

I can’t even remember how to breathe. I’m so transfixed by the photos that I barely register the soft chime from his laptop, indicating a new message has arrived.

My eyes jerk to the chat box as it happens. Three little words appear in the inbox. “Hey, big boy.”

Big boy.

My stomach twists, a bitter taste filling my mouth. My eyes scan the chat log, a back-and-forth conversation between Remy and whoever the hell “Baby Girl” is. I don’t catch every detail, my vision narrowing to tunnel vision as the jealousy takes hold.

She talks about meeting up, wanting to be filled and fucked by him.MyRemy. He responds with the exact tone of dirty talk, sending me into a tailspin.

Why would he share these photos with her?

I feel the burn of betrayal. How could he be doing this? And why haven’t I heard about this “Baby Girl” in my research? I’m missing something—someone. I scroll frantically through the rest of the chat, desperate for more information.

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