The sun baked the Los Angeles pavement as Rosa watched him. Marco—tall, broad-shouldered, with that tousled blonde hair she’d memorized. Her phone camera zoomed, capturing the sweat glistening on his neck as he loaded boxes into his truck. Her breath hitched.

She’d been tracking him for weeks. Knew his gym schedule, his favorite coffee spot. But this? His shirt rode up, revealing a strip of toned lower back, the waistband of his boxers peeking. Rosa’s free hand slid under her skirt, finding her clit already swollen and throbbing through her damp panties. “Fuck,” she whispered, pressing the heel of her palm against her pussy.

Back in her car, she scrolled through the gallery. Close-up of his hands—large, veins prominent. She imagined those fingers spreading her lips, plunging into her soaking hole. Her middle finger pushed her panties aside, sliding through her slick folds. She was drenched, her cunt clenching around nothing. She bit her lip, circling her clit faster, the wet sounds loud in the quiet car.

A new photo: Marco laughing, head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Rosa fantasized about dropping to her knees, unzipping his jeans, and taking his thick, uncut dick deep into her throat. She could almost taste the salt of his pre-cum. Two fingers now, thrusting in and out of her tight hole, her hips bucking against her hand. Her thumb worked her clit in rough, desperate circles.

“You have no idea,” she moaned to his pixelated image.