A video begins.

There’s a bed in a tidy room, but the identifying features are hidden: pictures placed face down on the nightstands and blinds drawn tight, casting the room in a cool shadow. A woman sits on the nondescript bedspread, her legs tucked up against her chest and her arms wrapped around her thighs, naked except for the mask that does little to truly obscure her face. 

Once she knows the video has begun, it’s as if she blooms, her arms and legs falling away to reveal the soft petals of her nakedness—the planes of her body, the angles, and the curves. She’s near perfect, Charlie thinks, already fisting his hard cock. 

With her red hair, she looks almost exactly like Ellie. 

Then a man walks around from the other side of the camera, and Charlie’s heart leaves his body.

Ellie

“Charlie!” I say brightly, throwing open the front door to the home I share with my husband, Blake. Cold air and bright sunshine stream in, reflecting off the Colorado snow, followed by Charlie, with