Voyeur Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Heat

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Heat, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Lacey Alexander, 2007

  Heat is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Alexander, Lacey.

  Voyeur / Lacey Alexander.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04193-2

  1. Voyeurism--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.L3539V69 2007

  813’.6--dc22 2006034771

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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  Chapter One

  Laura Watkins stared at the blank computer screen, her mind spinning with desperation. Write something! Anything! The black cursor kept blinking at her. Nothing came.

  She never had writer’s block—never.

  Well, until her recent breakup with David. Even now, as she lifted her gaze to the gently falling snow out the window in front of her, she couldn’t quite figure out why ending the relationship had affected her so severely. She’d never seen David as a stimulant to her creativity—after all, he was all business, the quintessential suit and tie guy, the corporate icon, partner in one of Seattle’s most prestigious law firms at thirty-two. Had she loved him that much? Had she loved him at all?

  You’re pathetic. Twenty-nine years old, and you still don’t know exactly what love is. And your promising career is going to die an early death because you’re not smart enough to sort out your emotions.

  Maybe Monica was right. Over pizza and beer at Laura’s apartment two weeks ago, she’d said, “It’s sex. You’ve gotten used to it. Without it, you’re just sort of . . . clogging up or something. No sexual release equals no creative release. I’m sure of it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she’d replied. “I wrote books before David—I can write books after him. And as you know, I’m not even sure why we stayed together so long.”

  “Because you need sex to create—it’s that simple.”

  Monica was a graduate student going for her Ph.D. in psychology at the University of Washington and thought she knew everything about the human mind, but in this particular instance, Laura didn’t buy it. Her best friend was usually a terrific problem-solver, but Laura just couldn’t believe her creative flow had anything to do with her sexual flow.

  Her real fear was that maybe she’d underestimated her feelings for David—maybe she did love him, deeply, and just wasn’t recognizing it until now, when it was too late. Another valid fear? Her next Riley Wainscott Mystery was due to her editor in less than a month, at the beginning of March, and so far, she didn’t have a plot. Or a crime. Or a criminal. Or even a good group of suspects. All she had was her intrepid heroine, Riley Wainscott, living with her eccentric Aunt Mimsey in a quaint New England town.

  “A getaway,” she’d told Monica enthusiastically, when the idea had hit her after her second beer. “Maybe that’s what I need. Just a change of scenery. A . . . retreat. Isn’t that what writers do when they need to get absorbed in their work? They go on a retreat someplace quiet and secluded. Maybe if I do something like that, so that it’s just me and Riley, the story will reveal itself.”

  Monica had looked skeptical. “That sounds way too simple, if you ask me.”

  Laura had only flashed a scowl, having truly felt she was on to something.

  “And even if you really wanted to pursue that, I see a major problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re broke. And I’m just guessing, but I don’t think secluded hideaways come cheap.”

  Laura had let out a huge sigh. Leave it to Monica to throw another crimp in her plan—even if she was right. She had, unfortunately, spent her partial advance for the current book long ago, on things like food and shelter, and was now living off her savings account. Until she turned in the completed novel, she had to count pennies.

  She’d looked up to find Monica’s lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. “This is against my better judgment, but luckily for you, I happen to have a cousin with a vacation home in Colorado. He’s always inviting me and the rest of my family to use it.”

  Laura lowered her chin. “So you’re saying?” This sounded good—perfect, even—but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

  “I’m saying I’m sure he’d be happy to let you retreat there. If you really think it would help.”

  “I do, Monnie, I really, really do!”

  Monica had delivered one of her typical superior looks. “I still say you need a good lay way worse than you need to lock yourself up in a big, lonely house, but if this is what you really want, girlfriend, consider it done.”

  Looking back on that night, Laura remembered the instant sense of relief, sureness, that this was the answer. Yet true to Monica’s predictions, here she sat, staring out on a beau
tiful mantle of Colorado powder through the picture window of a fabulous mountain home she had all to herself, and Riley’s story was no closer to completion than it had been in her tiny office back in Seattle.

  What the hell was she going to do?

  She couldn’t sleep, damn it. At first, she’d thought it was worry over the book, but then she’d realized she was hot, sweating. She got up to adjust the thermostat and lay back down. Then she realized her nose, mouth, throat, were as dry as the Sahara. Altitude. She rose once more and padded to the bathroom in her long blue cotton pj’s with white and black snowflakes all over them. She drank a little water and lay back down. Pulled the covers up, then pushed them off.

  She finally shot upright in bed in utter frustration and walked with determination toward the kitchen. She’d brought a few bottles of wine for relaxing by the fire in the evening, and now seemed like a good time to uncork one—surely a little wine would help her sleep.

  She didn’t bother turning on a light as she brought a glass and open bottle into the two-story living room. Instead, she just flipped on the handy gas fireplace, watched as the orange flames cast a glow across the room, then sat down on the sofa, ready for some serious relaxation.

  But what if Monica was right? What if her block truly had something to do with sex? After all, she didn’t really miss David. She didn’t miss his company, or his face, or his voice. But as she swallowed the last sip of wine in her stemmed glass and poured another, she couldn’t deny that she did miss being touched, being entered.

  She’d never thought she was a highly sexual person, unlike Monica, who lived for sex. In fact, Monica’s sexploits were a big reason Laura was able to dismiss Monica’s theory so easily—her best friend was a nympho and, like Freud, thought everything related to sex. But as a sip of wine moved warmly down through her chest, she couldn’t deny that the crux of her thighs ached at the thought of intimacy, that her breasts felt tender, sensitive.

  Pushing to her feet, she moved across the room toward the same huge wall of windows she’d worked next to earlier in the day. There were no blinds or shades, and the deep carpet of snow beyond shone silvery in the moonlight, doing its part to light the room.

  Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one hand to her breast. Her nipple jutted through her pajama top, hard against her palm. She squeezed gently, vaguely wishing the touch were that of a man—a bigger hand, a slightly rougher caress. She raked her thumb across the pearlized peak and felt a whoosh of desire sweep through her crotch.

  Maybe if sex was the problem here, she thought as she made her way back to the couch and drained her glass a second time, she should attempt to do something about it. Hell, for all she knew, a good orgasm would loose her creativity. If nothing else, it might help her sleep.

  Lowering her glass to the coffee table, she raised her hands to her breasts, covering them, slowly massaging. Her pussy flooded, just from that. She hardly ever did this—got herself off—but clearly she needed to come. She hardly ever thought of her vagina as her pussy, either, yet something about the moment almost called for it—that certain bluntness the word provided. A rose by any other name is still a rose . . . and in the quiet stillness of the dimly lit room where she was becoming intoxicated with wine and desire, there was no reason not to think of it that way. Just like if a man had been there—he would think of it that way, so she would, too. Sometimes even she needed to quit being her conservative self and just act without thinking.

  Unbuttoning the two top buttons of her pajamas, she reached inside, moving her left hand to her right breast. Once again, she found herself wishing it were a masculine touch, but desperate times indeed called for desperate measures.

  She twirled her erect nipple between thumb and forefinger, relishing the fresh rush of blood to her cunt. Mmm, yes. Pleasure. Want. And another dirty word. It, too, fit the moment—the raw arousal echoing through her. She did need this. So bad.

  Still, as she slipped her other hand between her legs, she harbored that same helpless wish—for a strong, virile, sexy man.

  But stop it. Quit wishing. Quit thinking. Just do this. Rub yourself.

  It took only a gentle massage to keep her pussy humming with eagerness. Maybe it was the solitude that made the self-caress easier than ever before, the knowledge that no one else was around—it was just her and the fire and the snow. Of course, the wine had certainly helped, too. It hadn’t made her any sleepier, but it had relaxed her—way more than a mere two glasses usually did.

  That’s when it hit her. Alcohol increased the effects of high altitude. No wonder she felt so . . . loopy. Pleasantly drunk. Free. To do . . . whatever.

  Reaching up, she untied the drawstring at her waist and eased out of the snowflake pajama bottoms, letting them drop to the floor. She leaned back on the sofa, legs parted, two fingers stroking through her pink cotton bikini panties. Mmm, the pleasure began to spread, echoing down through her thighs, up into her already sensitized breasts.

  That’s when she noticed the tiny little light across the room. A minute green dot on a gadget next to the colossal computer screen—the homeowner’s computer, but Monica had told her to feel free to use it.

  She froze in place, her hand going still as she realized she’d totally forgotten Monica’s giggling warning. “By the way, you might want to avoid walking through the living room naked.” It had come during the phone call when Monica had been giving her directions from the Eagle-Vail airport, instructions on how to get inside the house, all that.

  “Well, I hadn’t planned on it,” she’d said, “but why?”

  “My cousin has a webcam on his computer there.”

  “He’s going to spy on me?”

  Monica had laughed. “No, nothing like that. He just uses it to check in on the house occasionally when he’s not there. He once told me that when he knows someone’s coming to stay, he sometimes peeks in just to make sure they arrived okay. So no worries—just figured I should mention it.”

  Now Laura couldn’t help wondering if there was any chance she was being watched. Surely not. It was late—after 2 A.M. Monica’s cousin, a rich guy who had something to do with corporate takeovers, was surely asleep by now. As she should be. But she was not. So what if he was awake, too?

  Unlikely.

  Yet . . . she couldn’t ignore the slight feeling that someone was watching her, that same feeling you get when someone in a crowded room hones in on you. Only this was no crowded room. It was complete seclusion. Wasn’t it?

  She swallowed nervously and let her fingers glide lightly over her mound once more. They left little trails of fire. She bit her lip, her skin tingling with the new questions surrounding her. What if Monica’s cousin was witnessing this? Shouldn’t she stop? Shouldn’t she snatch up her pj bottoms and flee the room this instant? And still, to her surprise, the idea that maybe he was taking in her private touches added to her arousal, made her cunt pulse with an even harder need.

  She tried to remember what she knew about him. Shockingly little. There was the corporate takeover thing. “He’s like those guys in the movie Wall Street, but nicer,” Monica had said. What else had her friend told her? He wasn’t married. He was some kind of pilot in his spare time—as evidenced by the vintage flying paraphernalia decorating part of the mountain home. He was in his thirties and handsome, Monica had supplied. “Your basic rich, confirmed bachelor type.” With horror, Laura realized she didn’t even know the man’s name.

  And yet she was rubbing her pussy for him.

  If he was even watching. Again, she reminded herself that chances were slim—surely he wasn’t.

  But in that leaning-toward-surreal moment, she almost wanted him to be. Her breasts seemed to bloom with new desire at the confirmation. She wanted this man she didn’t know to watch her play with herself.

  In fact, the concept excited her so much that she decided to just pretend he was. Likely that light on the computer burned all day and all night, all the time, not really indicating if anyone was u
sing the webcam thingy, but for now, she was going to follow the simple, delicious urge to indulge in a fantasy and believe that a dashing, worldly pilot-slash-corporate raider was watching with bated breath as she touched herself for him.

  Moving her fingers in slow, deep circles over her clitoris, she closed her eyes and tried to feel his pretend gaze on her as warm pleasure spread through her. With her other hand, she unbuttoned the pajama top, all the way down, and pushed it open, revealing her breasts, both nipples taut when she ran her fingertips over first one, then the other. She imagined her voyeur’s delight and was almost tempted to look into the camera, but then decided—no, let him think she had no idea anyone could possibly be there. Let him think this was just her, sensual and sexy, pleasing herself by the light of the fire.

  She opened her eyes, glanced down at her nipples, dark and rosy in the room’s warm glow. She used both hands to pinch them lightly, letting out a sigh at the sharp sensation between her thighs.

  Easing one hand back down, she slid her fingers inside the pink elastic band and down into her wet folds. “Mmm,” she purred, thinking, Watch me. Watch me touch myself for you.

  Her fingertips sank deeper into her drenched flesh, massaging, feeling, stroking. She’d probably never explored her pussy this thoroughly before, and the thought hit her that it was about time she had!

  Part of her was tempted to take off her panties and spread her legs wide so her imaginary voyeur could see how pink and wet she was with his own eyes—but no. She didn’t want to give him everything. She wanted to titillate, tease. She wanted to make him ache for a glimpse of her swollen cunt.

  She never stopped rubbing her fingertips over her clit as she used her other hand to ease down one side of her undies just a bit, then the other. She drew them only to the tops of her thighs, playing with him, torturing him as she continued to massage herself, letting out a light moan as her pleasure grew. “Mmm,” she purred and felt a soft smile curve her lips. She was so close to coming, and the idea of being watched continued to escalate her heat, ratcheting it higher and higher.