Voyeur Read online

  Are you watching? Is your cock hard for me? She worked her clit in tight little circles, thrusting gently, gently, against her hand. Are you waiting for me to come?

  “Oh, mmm . . .” she moaned when the orgasm hit, waves of hot, swallowing pleasure buffeting her whole body as she kept rubbing, rubbing, sighing heatedly with each crushing pulse of the climax. Oh God, it was good.

  Had she ever come like this before? Had her pussy ever throbbed with such intensity? No, never—but she rode it out, still pumping, still stroking, until the last little pulsation ebbed.

  As sanity returned, she bit her lip and resisted a glance in the webcam’s direction. If that even was the webcam. She didn’t hang out with any high-tech types—she’d never actually seen a webcam before.

  Either way, though, the fantasy was over. It had brought her truly shocking pleasure, but it was done now.

  And she was even more sure than before that no one had watched her masturbate, thank goodness. Stimulating as a fantasy, yes—but it was nothing Laura would ever want to live out. It just wasn’t her style. And with a stranger, no less? Nope. Monica would probably love living it out, but not her.

  Now she only had to hope that perhaps her orgasm had given her the needed release so she could concentrate on her book tomorrow and get Riley’s story moving.

  Plucking up her pj bottoms, she stepped into them and tied the drawstring waist, then buttoned her pajama top. Flipping the switches that killed the fire and turned the room dark but for the reflection of the moon on the snow shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she finally allowed herself to take another peek toward the supposed webcam.

  Was there anyone there? She tilted her head, allowing herself to sincerely wonder once more, now that she was hidden in shadow.

  No. Impossible. Or at least highly unlikely.

  Good night, my imaginary voyeur.

  Chapter Two

  When Laura awoke the next morning, she still didn’t find herself bubbling with a plot for Riley and Aunt Mimsey. Damn it. But that was okay, she assured herself. After a cup of coffee and a bagel eaten while peering out on the snow-encrusted mountains in the distance, she put on a pair of jogging pants and a comfy long-sleeved T-shirt and situated herself before the computer, still convinced last night’s release would surely be followed by a burst of creativity. On some level, she’d decided to believe Monica’s theory—since maybe believing would make it so, helping her put some words on the computer screen today.

  As she pulled up the file in which she was utterly determined to start writing a novel within the next few minutes, she glanced absently out the window, the view too beautiful to be ignored for long. But then her gaze stuck on the presumed webcam. A sense of relief washed over her when she saw that, yes, the little green light remained lit, meaning it was always lit and that no one had really been watching her last night.

  “All right now, Riley, what mystery can you solve this time around?” she said to the computer. She’d completed seven Riley Wainscott Mysteries thus far, the last two making the USA Today best-seller list, and she’d come to rely on her “relationship” with Riley, the innate understanding she had of her character, to guide her when writing. She knew Riley wouldn’t fail her now.

  Slowly, the first seed of an idea began to grow in her mind. And whereas her plots were usually well thought-out before she ever committed a word to the page, she knew that this time she needed to simply take this kernel and run with it. She began to type.

  Aunt Mimsey came bursting through the front door of her cottage quicker than Riley would have believed the old woman could move. “Riley, come quick!”

  “What’s wrong, Aunt Mimsey? Did Mrs. Dorchester’s cat dig up your flower bed again?”

  “No, it’s a man.”

  Riley raised her eyebrows in doubt. “A man dug up your flower bed?”

  Aunt Mimsey shook her head, clearly in distress. “No, silly girl. There’s a man outside. I saw him lurking around the Dorchesters’ guesthouse.”

  Just then, the computer let out a beep and a window appeared on the screen atop Aunt Mimsey’s tirade. An Instant Message box.

  FLYBOY1: Good morning.

  Laura couldn’t have been more stunned. Flyboy. Must be Monica’s pilot/corporate raider cousin.

  Well, maybe he was being polite enough to check on her arrival like this rather than with the webcam. Even so, given her exploits last night, it was unsettling.

  The reply box that automatically opened was labeled FLYBOY2. She figured she had no choice but to answer. After all, the guy was letting her use his vacation home for free.

  FLYBOY2: Hello.

  FLYBOY1: I trust you arrived okay. How do you like the house?

  FLYBOY2: The house is fabulous. A perfect retreat. Thank you for letting me use it.

  FLYBOY1: Glad to have you there. Monica told me you were having some trouble writing in your usual environment. Are your creative juices flowing yet?

  FLYBOY2: Starting to, I think.

  FLYBOY1: Good. Are any other juices flowing?

  Laura’s stomach pinched tightly. She hesitated, trying to figure out how to respond. FLYBOY2: Um, not sure what you mean.

  FLYBOY1: Come on, Laura, you can be honest. Your secret’s safe with me .

  Her pussy clenched, along with the rest of her body. She simply sat there, frozen, unable to think clearly . . . or reply.

  FLYBOY1: I saw you last night, Laura. I saw you make yourself come.

  Her breasts ached as her chest tightened. Her heart threatened to pound right through her rib cage. Again, she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t fathom that he’d really seen her, that she’d really been performing, touching herself, for a real, live voyeur!

  Yet another message appeared.

  FLYBOY1: Forgive me. I didn’t do it on purpose. Was just up late working and it occurred to me I hadn’t checked on your arrival, so I flipped on the cam, and there you were. I shouldn’t have watched, but what can I say? I’m a red-blooded American male. And you’re an incredibly hot little houseguest, honey.

  Laura stared at his message in awe. Sensible responses to what had just happened raced through her mind. She should shut down the computer right now. More than that, she should pack up and leave, head right back to Seattle. Every logical instinct told her to run, to take whatever measures necessary—no matter how extreme—to get herself out of this situation that was so very un-her.

  Yet her pussy pulsed under her jogging pants.

  And Monica’s description played back through her head. Handsome. Thirty-something.

  How handsome? she should have asked Monica.

  She bit her lip, felt her heartbeat speed up, and dropped her gaze to her fingers because she was nervous and wanted to make sure she hit the right letters. She could barely believe the reply she’d typed, even as she hit Send. FLYBOY2: Did I make you hard?

  FLYBOY1: As a rock.

  Mmm, the words on the screen turned her breasts heavy, achy. Could she actually do this? Have cybersex? Without even any wine to fuel her?

  She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, but to her surprise, maybe she could. FLYBOY2: Did you suffer all night?

  FLYBOY1: No, honey, afraid not. I took matters into my own hands, just like you .

  The image that entered her mind turned her crotch even warmer than it already was. FLYBOY2: Right at the computer? Or later, in bed?

  FLYBOY1: Right at the computer. I came just a few seconds after you. Watching the pleasure wash over your face while you worked your hot little pussy pushed me over the edge.

  Despite herself, despite what a dangerous game this might be, she yearned for more of that image—details. She suddenly longed to know exactly what she’d made happen to this man, this stranger. FLYBOY2: Did you come on the screen? The keyboard?

  FLYBOY1: No—caught it in a tissue. Computers are expensive. ;)

  If his computer at home was as extravagant as the one she worked on right now, he was right. She t
yped the first thought in her head without weighing it. FLYBOY2: I would like to have seen.

  FLYBOY1: Sorry, honey, the webcam only works one way.

  FLYBOY2: That’s not exactly fair.

  FLYBOY1: Is your pussy wet right now?

  From talking about this?

  Oh God, was it ever. And her heart beat so hard it hurt. But maybe she should lie. Maybe it would be wise to say something jocular, or sarcastic, something to lighten the mood from the deep and dirty direction it had taken.

  Only . . . she slowly realized that she wanted to tell him, wanted him to know. FLYBOY2: Yes. My panties are already soaked.

  FLYBOY1: Mmm, nice, baby.

  Then a rather horrifying thought occurred to her. FLYBOY2: Can you see me right now?

  FLYBOY1: Yes, Laura. I’m looking right at you.

  The knowledge made her want to shrink away. They weren’t on equal footing—he seemed to have all the control.

  FLYBOY1: In fact, while we’ve been talking, your nipples have gotten hard. I know you’re wearing a bra—I can see the outline through your shirt, but those pretty nipples are jutting through anyway.

  And growing harder by the second—she could almost feel it happening.

  FLYBOY1: You’re blushing.

  She’d never felt so trapped between embarrassment and arousal.

  FLYBOY2: I feel like I’m on a stage.

  FLYBOY1: I’m the only person in the audience.

  She bit her lip. FLYBOY2: Is that supposed to make me feel better?

  FLYBOY1: Yes. I like watching you.

  Even that fed her desire, making her pussy flutter. Still more nervousness flitted through her as she asked the next thing that came to mind, arousal beating out embarrassment, at least for this brief moment. FLYBOY2: Are you hard right now?

  FLYBOY1: Very.

  She didn’t know why, but she chose that second to finally glance down at her breasts, shrouded in a comfortable cotton bra today. Maybe she’d thought now that they’d turned the attention to his body, he wouldn’t notice if she looked at hers? As he’d promised, the taut peaks poked visibly through.

  FLYBOY1: They’re beautiful, Laura.

  She played dumb, sorry to have been caught studying herself. FLYBOY 2: What are you talking about?

  FLYBOY1: Your breasts, of course. Fucking beautiful. Watching you play with them last night made me want to slide my cock between them.

  Oh God. Now her heart beat between her legs. And her breasts felt huge, bigger than their C-cup size. This situation was already insane, and it seemed to be spinning more and more out of control. What was happening to her? Why couldn’t she resist the forbidden allure of their conversation? Before she could weigh the consequences, she found herself perpetuating it. FLYBOY2: How big is it?

  FLYBOY1: My cock?

  FLYBOY2: Yes.

  FLYBOY1: Big enough :)

  What guy wouldn’t say that? FLYBOY2: Big enough for what?

  FLYBOY1: Big enough to satisfy you. I promise.

  But she needed more. FLYBOY2: Too vague. Could you be more specific?

  FLYBOY1: Well, at the moment, it feels about the size of the Washington Monument.

  She couldn’t help laughing lightly. FLYBOY2: I’m looking for a number in inches, please.

  FLYBOY1: Sorry, honey, can’t say I ever measured.

  She decided to push her luck even further. FLYBOY2: Do it now. If you feel as big as a monument, this is probably a good time.

  FLYBOY1: Probably so, but you’ll just have to take my word for it.

  FLYBOY2: Why?

  FLYBOY1: I don’t have a ruler long enough. :)

  She lifted a grin in the direction of the webcam, amused, then posed the question that had just come to mind. FLYBOY2: If you can see me, can you also hear me? Am I typing all this for nothing? She was suddenly trying to remember if she’d moaned very much last night.

  FLYBOY1: The camera captures sound, but it can be muffled, so typing is better.

  Good. Maybe if she’d moaned, he hadn’t heard.

  FLYBOY1: Well, hot and sexy Laura, as much as I’d love to talk dirty with you all day, I have to sign off now.

  FLYBOY2: Companies to take over? Empires to topple?

  FLYBOY1: Something like that.

  She couldn’t help feeling vaguely disappointed that they were suddenly done. But then he IMed again.

  FLYBOY1: Will I see more of you tonight?

  She pulled in her breath at the loaded question. FLYBOY2: What do you mean?

  FLYBOY1: Exactly what I asked. But let’s make it earlier tonight. Ten, your time.

  Ah, yes—it was an hour earlier in L.A. She considered the various ways she might respond, finally settling on simple clarification. FLYBOY 2: Are you suggesting something similar to last night?

  FLYBOY1: Yes, honey. That’s EXACTLY what I’m suggesting. Except more.

  FLYBOY2: More?

  FLYBOY1: I want you to show me your pussy.

  Laura pulled in her breath, forced back to reality. FLYBOY2: I can’t.

  FLYBOY1: Why not?

  She hesitated, thought it through—then told him the truth. FLYBOY 2: I thought I was alone last night. I don’t think I could do that again—or more—knowing you were watching.

  It was a slight lie, but last night had been more fantasy to her than anything else. Only just now had she truly discovered the fantasy had been reality—and she simply didn’t think she was bold enough to do it again with the full knowledge that he was really watching her every naughty move. And to reveal herself even further? To show him the most intimate part of her, which only a handful of men had seen? And she had, at the very least, been dating those men. Never once had she fooled around with a stranger.

  His reply took longer than usual. FLYBOY1: You don’t know how much that disappoints me, Laura.

  Her, too—in a way—if she was honest. But she knew herself too well. And the fact was, as much as she’d just let herself slip wholly into this hot conversation, when she drew back and looked at it sensibly, it still seemed . . . dangerous. FLYBOY2: I’m sorry.

  FLYBOY1: No, honey, I’M sorry.

  The statement could be read two different ways, but she knew he wasn’t apologizing for having made her uncomfortable—he was bummed to hear the dirty fun was over.

  She didn’t answer, as there seemed nothing more to say.

  Although it remained unnerving to know he was still watching her.

  A solution came to mind, given that she planned to spend the next ten days in his vacation home. FLYBOY2: Maybe I should move the camera, point it at the floor.

  FLYBOY1: Don’t bother. I can move the lens around no matter which way you aim it.

  Her back went rigid. FLYBOY2: So you’re saying you’ll keep watching me, whether I want you to or not? Whether or not I’m even doing anything . . . naughty?

  FLYBOY1: What can I say? I like watching you. You like it, too—I can tell. So just think of me like a fly on the wall. And who knows, if I’m patient, maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll do something naughty for me anyway.

  FLYBOY2: Don’t bet on it. I know I just had a very dirty discussion with you, but I’m slowly coming back to my senses. FLYBOY1: That’s a shame. You do dirty very well.

  Then an entirely new question hit her, the thought almost paralyzing her. FLYBOY2: Do you do this often? Watch women this way? Other people who come here?

  She wasn’t sure why the notion upset her so much, but it did. Maybe it made her feel less consequential to him than she wanted to—even if she didn’t know him at all.

  FLYBOY1: No, I told you—this happened by accident. But now that I’ve seen you, I want to KEEP ON seeing you.

  She bit her lip, torn between relief, flattery, and . . . what felt like a very sensible worry that prompted her next reply. FLYBOY2: I suppose I could unhook the webcam from the computer.

  FLYBOY1: You won’t.

  So confident.

  FLYBOY2: You don’t think so?


  FLYBOY1: No.

  And for some reason, she knew he was right. This was his home, and he’d been generous enough to lend it to someone he didn’t know. Despite the circumstances, it seemed wrong to mess with his equipment and risk breaking something or somehow screwing up his expensive computer.

  It would be daunting to sit here working, knowing he might be watching her at any time, but so long as she kept her clothes on, it was no big deal. Logically, anyway. In fact, before long, he’d probably get bored and stop watching her at all.

  As she sat contemplating that, he sent another message. FLYBOY1: If you change your mind, I’ll be here tonight at ten.

  She drew in her breath, then simply lifted her gaze to the camera and quietly shook her head.

  FLYBOY1: By the way, assign yourself a new I.M. name other than mine. Flyboy2 just doesn’t suit you. ;)

  She felt a bit numb as she typed. FLYBOY2: What does?

  FLYBOY1: Something sexy. Good-bye for now, sexy.

  FLYBOY2: Good-bye, Flyboy. Happy empire toppling.

  FLYBOY1: I’ll see you tonight. ;)

  The story finally took off—in leaps and bounds. By the time darkness fell around the mountainside home, Laura had written a chapter and a half and had outlined approximately a third of the book in her mind. Turned out the man Aunt Mimsey had seen lurking around the neighbors’ guesthouse had been a dark, handsome, rugged sort, full of mystery. Riley had confronted him—and been bowled over by his confident sex appeal.

  Not a normal encounter for Riley Wainscott. Like Laura, Riley dated, sometimes had relationships that lasted a while, sometimes woke up happy after making love, but always behaved sensibly when it came to men and sex. So much so that it was almost a moot point in Riley’s life, a subject that never really played into Laura’s plots in any significant way—until today. For the first time, Laura had uncovered the sensual woman beneath Riley’s staid exterior. She’d let Riley experience an unbidden pulse between her thighs, just as Laura had that morning. And she knew that pulse, that temptation, that forbidden instinct, would have real consequences for Riley and this case before the book was through.