Gareth blinked.
He stared at the closed laptop.
The room was dark except for the thin crack of streetlight under his curtains, and the sounds from upstairs were still happening, and his cock was still at full attention, and he had closed the laptop because closing the laptop was the correct and logical and morally defensible action to take.
He opened the laptop.
He told himself it was to close the tab properly.
The screen came back, and the tab was still there, and the image was still there, and the resolution was still that — still the impossible, tactile, three-dimensional wrong of a screen that had stopped behaving like a screen — and his hand moved to the trackpad and stayed there without clicking anything.
The woman on the screen was on her back.
