The phone screen glowed in the dim room — muted, discreet, the only light dancing across the walls.

It was late.
Too late.
Quiet enough that every small sound felt louder.
Your thumb paused on the screen, hovering over the newest post that had just gone up.

@rileygrinds_hard

There she was.
Fresh out of the shower.
Still damp.

Her toned stomach glistened faintly in the bathroom light — those soft, sculpted lines she always had from running track, doing squats, lifting like a demon. A towel hung low around her hips, clinging to her waist, clearly not meant to stay on long. And above, she covered her chest with one strong forearm, bracing her phone with the other hand, her cheek still flushed and damp from heat.

Her hair, usually in a ponytail or cap, now hung wet and loose over one eye. She was biting the inside of her cheek, half-innocent, half-smirking.

Bet I clean up nicer than you thought 😏
Captioned at 1:12 AM.
No filter. Just bold.
The mirror behind her fogged slightly from the steam, but her eyes stayed razor-sharp — that same cocky stare she always wore while beating everyone on the court, daring them to challenge her again.

And her body... it was the same body you'd seen dozens of times before. At least, parts of it. Sweat-soaked after practice. Tank tops pulled tight after a sprint. Her abs flexing whenever she laughed too hard or wrestled you for the TV remote.

But this was different.

She’d posed for this.

Not for her team. Not for your sister.

Just for the camera.
Just for attention.
And now — it was your undoing.

Your hand moved slowly beneath your waistband, almost automatically at first. The image burned into your mind, the curves, the dampness, the look in her eyes. You slid your shorts down just enough, stroking yourself in rhythm with every detail. Each line of her body. Each imagined movement. Skin on skin, the friction just enough to keep your breath shallow, your chest tight.

Somewhere downstairs, the house creaked. Pipes groaned softly. But your room was silent, save for the wet sound of your fist working your cock, and the occasional hiss of breath slipping past your clenched teeth.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop imagining how hot the towel must be against her thighs. How long she stood there, adjusting the angle. How many shots she took before she picked this one.

And then—

The door opened.

Just a crack.

Long enough for someone to slip in without knocking.

Wet footprints on the hardwood. A soft breath behind you. Then her voice:

“...No fucking way.”
It was Riley, your elder sister's friend who was having a sleepover at your house.