Page 22 of Chasing My Bliss (Behind The Lens #6)

Felicity

I wake up alone, my body still humming from last night—Roxy’s lips on mine, her fingers tangled in my hair, the way her breath caught when I kissed her harder.

We didn’t go further than kissing, though I could feel the tension between us, electric and unspoken.

She wanted more. I wanted more. But a sharp pang of guilt slammed into me, heavy and unshakable, and I’d pulled away with some half-hearted excuse about being tired and having an early class.

A lie. Kind of.

The truth? That was the complicated part.

I was scared. Terrified, really, of moving on with my life, alone.

Of what it says about Ezra. About me. Because going further with Roxy would be accepting that Ezra and I are truly over, and I’m not ready for that.

Not yet. Some part of me still clings to the hope that he’ll text, call, show up.

Something. Anything. Even if it’s to tell me how much he hates me.

But the silence this morning is louder than ever.

Still nothing. No “sorry,” no “I miss you,” no “please come back.” I’d take a “fuck you, Felicity.” At least then I’d know he was thinking of me.

That there was still a sliver of hope, instead of this agonizing unknown.

And yet, I know, deep down, I won’t hear from him again. It’s almost like a sixth sense.

It’s over.

The realization settles in my chest like wet cement.

Heavy. Cold. Final. It makes me question everything—especially whether telling people what I really do is ever worth it.

They can say they can handle it, but when push comes to shove, when fantasy gives way to reality, they will run.

Just like Ezra did. Even when he was the one to push and encourage me into the act that ultimately ended us.

And I’m the one left behind to pick up the pieces. Heart cracked. Alone.

I pull my comforter up around my neck, just laying there until I’ve burned through all the excuses I can muster. Then, with a sigh, I get up, throw on jeans and a hoodie, and sling my bookbag over my shoulder. Time to face the day. Time to face Roxy.

Last night’s lie isn’t a total fabrication—I do have a class today.

It’s not that early, well, unless you consider ten a.m. early.

I have a psychology exam I’m totally under-prepared for.

I tell myself I need to get to campus early to cram, and while that’s true, it’s also just easier than confronting the girl whose heart I might’ve bruised while trying to protect the fragile shards left of mine.

I expect to find Roxy in the kitchen or the living room, maybe with a knowing look or some teasing remark.

But the apartment is quiet. Still. Empty.

When I glance out the window, her car’s already gone.

A strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in my gut.

A part of me is grateful that I can dodge an awkward conversation—yet part of me feels. .. bummed that I can’t see her.

How messed up am I?

The drive to campus is uneventful, the kind of autopilot ride where your hands move but your mind’s far away.

I hit every green light; at least I hope they were, since it’s still kind of a blur.

It’s almost as if the universe is conspiring to make sure I show up for this damn test. No excuses. No delays. No love drama to prevent it.

In a way, it did happen that way. No Ezra. No Roxy.

When I pull into the lot, I brace myself for the usual morning scavenger hunt for a spot. But then, like fate’s giving me one more tiny win, a car backs out of a front-row space just as I turn the corner. I slide in it, stunned, but happy.

Front row. Prime spot. No ten-mile trek. It’s almost suspicious how easy things are going for me this morning. Shit. Maybe I should press my luck and go play the lottery. Hit the jackpot and run away somewhere and escape from the shambles of my life.

But I’ll take it.

I grab my bag, step out into the cool morning air, and steel myself for the day ahead—my test, my guilt, and eventually, whatever conversation I owe Roxy. One thing at a time.

The wind cuts through my jacket as I make my way to the student union. I need coffee and I have a quick study session planned with Katelynn. We’re both feeling shitty about this test and want to run through the study material together.

I’ve barely stepped into the student union when I hear my name being called.

“Felicity! Felicity.” I turn toward the familiar voice. Katelynn. “Over here.” She stands from the table, holding up two coffee cups in her hands. She's a fucking lifesaver.

I smile widely and make my way over to her, weaving through the tables and people as if I’m a piece on a gameboard.

“I was about to message you,” she says as I sit down in the chair beside her, placing my bag on the table and pulling out my notebook.

“Just running late.” I open the notes I need to study while taking a sip of the hot coffee. “Thanks for this.”

“You’re welcome. It was my turn to buy, anyway.” She looks at me, her mouth opening and closing, but never saying anything more. She flips the pages in her notebook back and forth nervously.

“What?”

“Sorry. I was just wondering if you heard from Ezra. If that was why you were running late, the two of you made up?”

Katelynn knew we were having some problems and I haven’t heard from him. She just doesn’t know the complete story. She doesn’t know about my job with Behind the Lens. That I masturbate to a live audience for money. I’m not sure she’d care, but I don’t want to risk finding out if she does.

I don’t think I could take someone else rejecting me.

“No. We haven’t.” I clear my throat, not wanting to break down in front of her.

“His fucking loss. If I ever see him, I’m going to kick his ass.” I burst out laughing at her response. “Katelynn, you’ve never even met him.”

“So?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve seen a picture of him and I know where he teaches. I can always make a sign and protest on the street in front of the school.”

“I love you for that, but it’s not necessary.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“I’m positive. But if we don’t get to studying, we are both definitely failing that test.”

With that, we begin asking each other questions, practicing the ones we noted the professor reviewed with us, until it’s time to head to class.

I walk into the house, tired but ready to talk to Roxy. Not only about this thing between us, but about her family. I have questions and I know she has the answers. My mom is important to me and I need to know this marriage she’s in isn’t going to break her.

I don’t see Roxy in the living room, but I do hear her. It’s muffled, coming from down the hallway where our bedrooms are.

I don’t call out for her. Instead, I drop my bags and coat on the couch and head down the hallway.

My steps are slow and careful. Her voice gets louder the further into the house I move.

But she’s not talking to someone on the phone, she’s streaming.

I press my body closer to the wall, her moans pulling me forward, stopping just outside the cracked open door.

I don’t mean to eavesdrop. But I’m drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

“Hey Babes, who wants more?” she purrs, eyes locking onto the lens like she’s speaking to just one person, when in reality she has thousands of followers.

I know that she’s talking to her viewers, but it feels like she’s speaking to me .

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, her legs spread wide as she thrusts a dildo inside her, moaning as she tells her viewers how good it feels. How wet they’ve made her. The soft glow of the ring light casts a warm halo around her, making her skin look like velvet. And I can’t look away.

Roxy moves with such ease, exuding confidence and sexual awareness. Every flick of her hair, every glance at the lens, every word she says is deliberate. There's a magnetism about her—one that pulls at me with every movement.

I shouldn’t be here, spying on her. It’s invasive, wrong.

The shame only twists tighter with every moan she lets out—and still, I stay.

It’s not just about how she looks—though God, she’s beautiful—it’s about the way she owns it.

Herself. The space. The gaze. I’m in awe of how easily she commands a room from behind a screen.

Something about it sets off an electric buzzing just beneath my skin.

I secretly wish that I could do it as easily as her.

I press my body closer to the wall, inching forward so I can get a better view, careful not to make a sound. My pulse quickens. It’s not just lust urging me on—it’s admiration, too. Maybe even envy. She’s fearless in a way I’ve only ever pretended to be.

“I’m so close. Keep those filthy words coming for your little cum slut. Make me come undone all over this dildo while I pretend it’s you.” She thrusts her hand faster, as her other hand cups her breast, as she squeezes and pulls on her very erect nipple. I long to have my mouth on them.

For a split second, I wonder if she knows I’m here. If she’s putting on a little extra show for me. Maybe her words are meant for my ears.

I bite my lip, torn between guilt and desire. But still, I linger—watching the woman I can’t stop thinking about come undone on screen.

And I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me. What she’s been doing to me.

Or maybe she does. Maybe she senses it in that instinctual way performers sometimes do—the slight shift in the air when someone’s watching.

But she doesn’t look toward the door, doesn’t pause.

She just keeps going, slipping effortlessly into that version of herself that belongs to the screen and the strangers behind it.

She swings her hair as she lowers her head, reads a message, and arches a brow. “That’s bold of you,” she says, smirking at the screen. “I like bold baby, but you haven’t been a good enough boy for that yet.”

My breath catches.

Roxy pulls out the dildo and rubs it between her breasts. She uses her hand to press her breasts around the dildo as she moves it up and down. Is she fucking her breasts with the silicone dick? “You like that, baby? You want more?” she asks the chat, her voice a velvet dare.

This woman is doing something to me that I can’t explain. I swallow hard, knowing that I can’t stay here any longer. Not only because I don’t want to get caught, but because I’m so fucking turned on, I can’t stand it any longer and I need a release.

I make sure she hasn’t noticed me. That her attention is still firmly on the screen in front of her and I slip past the door, and race to my bedroom, gently closing the door behind me.