Leaving my truck in the driveway, I grab my groceries and take the dozen strides to my mailbox.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I watched Cassandra get her mail, and I’m still on edge.
Mostly because I can’t get the sight of her bent over in those fucking shorts out of my mind. Probably doesn’t help that I’ve watched the video of her doing just that two dozen times. And it definitely doesn’t help that I’m severely lacking in sleep after the last couple days.
I keep my eyes firmly on my own mailbox, not sparing a glance at the box across the street.
There’s more mail in mine than I expected, but half is probably garbage.
With the pile tucked under one arm, I walk through my garage and into the kitchen.
The cans in the bottom of my grocery bag clunk against the counter when I set it down, but there’s nothing cold in the bag, so I ignore it and turn my attention to the mail.
I sort out the typical junk mail and find one flyer for new shingles that came from my man with connections to Italy, so I set that to the side. He’s old school and doesn’t like to use phones, but his information is usually good, so I don’t mind the Cold War approach. It’ll give me something to do tonight as I sort out the coded message.
The last item is a plain brown envelope with something thick inside.
I lift it, ready to take it to my safe room to check it for explosives, when I see it’s addressed to Resident of 1304.
This is Cassandra’s mail.
I pause.
This isn’t mine.
I shouldn’t…
My fingers are already pulling the little plastic thread to rip open the envelope.
I know I shouldn’t, but this is for her safety. The packaging is suspicious. The address is not personalized. The contents…
I tilt the large envelope, and a book slides out.
It’s square, maybe seven by seven inches, with a hardcover covered in a soft black fabric.
I tilt it in the light coming through the window, causing the silver lettering across the cover to shine.
Lust Shots.
And my blood thickens with an emotion I can’t pinpoint.
Anger? Jealousy?
I open the book, and my stomach clenches.
Definitely jealousy.
It’s Cassandra. On her knees. On a bed that isn’t hers. And the gauzy little nightgown she’s wearing is pretty much see-through.
I turn the page.
She’s on her back, her head hanging off the foot of the bed, her arms draped down toward the ground, her dark curls pooling between her hands. She’s not looking at the camera in this one; she’s looking to the side. And she’s wearing—
I grip the book tighter, and the spine creaks.
She’s in a bra and panties. That’s it.
The angle of the shot highlights her giant tits, mounded on her chest, held in place by black lace and underwires.
I turn the page.
She’s standing in front of a full-length mirror. The shot is from behind, and she’s still just in her underwear. This one is in black and white. And…
My breaths are coming faster.
My chest rises and falls as if I’m fighting for my life.
I turn the page.
Again.
Again.
All her. All my Cassandra. Spread out like a fucking centerfold.
For someone else.
My vision tints an ugly shade of green, and I storm out of my house, book in hand.
