Voyeur Page 4

  A thousand miles away, he watched her, mesmerized—and spoke back to the screen even though he knew she couldn’t hear. “Aw, baby—you’re so fucking hot.” His cock jutted from his open pants and his fist wrapped warm around it.

  He’d spent a few sad, lonely minutes thinking she really wasn’t going to show, that he’d really had all of her he was going to get—and then, when he’d been just about to give up and walk away, she’d appeared in that pretty and unexpected bra-and-panties set, her hair and face done up to make her into the sexual being he knew she was. A sizzling heat had burned from his chest to his dick at the sight of her. All that waiting hadn’t been for nothing. And now Laura was showing him her pretty little cunt, telling him she wanted him to fuck her, and his whole existence in that moment became about good, hot, nasty sex.

  He watched in pure amazement as she turned to sit on the couch, parting her thighs wide, draping one leg over the sofa’s stuffed arm to put her pussy even more widely on display. He feasted on it with his eyes—so pink and open—wishing he could do so with his mouth. He heard the light sound of her breath, coming labored as she stroked one long, tapered finger through her wetness.

  “Damn, honey,” he murmured, pulling at his cock.

  His own raspy breath joined hers, seeming to fill the darkened room.

  “More,” he urged her. “Touch it for me.”

  It was almost as if she’d heard, and he let a wicked smile take him as her middle finger began to twirl hard, rhythmic circles over her clit, now protruding so prettily from her slick folds.

  “Oh yeah—rub that pretty pussy for me.”

  She did, thrusting lightly now as the first two fingers of her right hand extended down into her parted flesh. Her left hand rose to cup one breast, squeezing, raking her thumb across the taut mauve nipple pointing out over the uneven edging of her bra.

  “So nice, baby,” he breathed toward the screen, wishing she could hear, wishing all this fucking distance didn’t lay between them. At first, that part had been exciting—but already, this fast, he wanted to do away with it and be with her, two bodies thrusting together, the way it was naturally supposed to be.

  But on the other hand, who was he to complain? Laura Watkins had surrendered herself to him in a way she’d never planned and admittedly never thought she could, and his cock swelled further with dark, masculine pride at knowing this show was just for him, for his pleasure, and hers. If a few states separated them, hell, this was surely the next best thing to being there, and a damn hot treat to have grown from his innocent late-night peek into the house last night.

  He gripped his hardened length tighter, wanting to give it to her so bad he could almost taste it. He kept his eyes glued to her gorgeous cunt, her bountiful breasts, the lost look of passion on her pretty face. She was getting close, he could tell, rubbing herself more intensely, gritting her teeth lightly, squeezing first one breast then the other with more ferocity than he’d yet seen from her. “That’s right, honey,” he said lowly, “keep going. Get yourself off for me. Get yourself off.”

  Her breath came heavier still, and so did his own. He tugged at his cock, matching her rhythm and knowing he couldn’t hold back much longer. “Come, baby,” he urged. “Come for me now.”

  The circles she rubbed over the top part of her pussy grew faster—and deeper, too. He could tell from the way she moved her hand, from the sweet agony reshaping her face. She was panting now, and then began to let out short, hot little sobs: “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . .”

  His chest rose and fell as desire tightened inside him, centering in his groin. His dick throbbed in his hand.

  And then she released a high-pitched cry and he saw the ecstasy transform her expression—even with her eyes shut, her muscles relaxed, and any agony on her face softened to pure pleasure. She lifted herself in a harder, slower rhythm against her hand as she rode out the climax—and he said, “Ah, damn,” since he knew he was going to come, too, no stopping it, and he exploded in long, intense bursts into the tissues he, thankfully, had already placed at his side.

  The heated pulses forced his eyes shut and delivered the usual brief-but-blissful out-of-body experience before it all faded to exhaustion and let him refocus on the screen.

  Laura sat on the couch, still now, but her legs remained prettily spread, like a centerfold picture on his computer. She licked her upper lip and looked straight at him, eyes glassy. In the aftermath of orgasm, her skin seemed to glow on the high-resolution screen, and she looked thoroughly satisfied . . . yet her expression made him wonder what else lurked inside her.

  “This isn’t me,” she said quietly to the camera. Then gave her head a soft shake that made her hair bounce and her breasts jiggle lightly. “I don’t know what you do to me.”

  His chest spasmed at her words. He hated that she didn’t understand that this was, indeed, very clearly her. But he loved being the man getting to show her. And he continued to be all the more astonished to realize, once more, that it had happened completely by accident, and through a mere computer screen.

  I know what I do to you, Laura. I get you hot. Hotter than anyone ever has.

  And I’m going to get you even hotter.

  Hold on tight, baby, because this ride is just starting, and before it’s over, I’m going to make you do things you’ve never even thought about before.

  Getting up and walking out of the room, stopping only to scoop up her sexy panties on the way, had felt no less than surreal. Laura had spent the next ten minutes fluctuating between embarrassment, disbelief, and the odd sense of exhilaration that had remained after so openly touching herself for her corporate-raider-flyboy-without-a-name.

  She couldn’t believe she’d done it. But she also couldn’t believe how utterly incredible it had felt. Knowing his eyes had been on her—not just a fantasy—had excited her more than anything ever had. Starting out, of course, she hadn’t been sure she could really do it—but oh, had she ever done it! And once she’d let go of her worries and fears, once she’d forgotten about everything else but his eyes and her body, it had been sinfully easy.

  To her surprise, she didn’t feel like changing into comfy pajamas afterward, so instead she’d slept naked. She woke up the next morning feeling freer and more energized just from remembering the previous night. She put on only a pair of white cotton panties and a strappy yellow cami to head down to the kitchen, wondering why she hadn’t started wearing less here sooner. Despite the snow outside, the house stayed warm—overly so when the sun was out—so she’d probably be much more comfortable this way than she had the first night and through the day yesterday.

  After consuming coffee and a bowl of cereal while looking out at the peaceful white setting—where she noticed the tracks of a rabbit or some other small animal—she headed straight for the computer, as anxious as Riley Wainscott probably was to find out what exactly the dark stranger was up to and if it had anything to do with the priceless antique broach that had turned up missing from Mrs. Dorchester’s jewel box during her writing late yesterday. Aunt Mimsey certainly thought him suspicious, but Riley was holding her judgment for the time being—and planning to investigate him a lot more thoroughly before she made up her mind.

  By noon, Riley had stumbled across the man pawing through the Dorchesters’ toolshed behind the flower garden. But instead of making up some excuse when she opened the door and their eyes met across the dimly lit space, instead of trying to push past her and run away, he’d instead looked at her like a man who wanted to possess her. Her blood had run hot and Riley had been stunned, having never suffered such a visceral reaction to a guy before.

  Then he’d kissed her.

  Long and hard and passionate.

  Riley felt the kiss everywhere—from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She knew she should push him away—he was a suspect, not to mention a total stranger—yet she couldn’t find the strength to end the most glorious kiss of her life. His mouth captured hers, leaving her no ch
oice but to submit. The musky scent of him permeated her senses and he tasted vaguely of mint.

  When finally the man pulled back—still holding her in his strong embrace but giving her the chance to peer up into his dark, commanding eyes—she thought of everything she should be doing right now: breaking free of his hold, asking him what the hell he was doing in here, finding out just exactly who he was. Yet his smoldering gaze made it hard to think of detective work at the moment, and when she opened her mouth to interrogate him, she instead found herself uttering one lone and telling word. “More.”

  The rumble of a large vehicle cut suddenly through Laura’s concentration, forcing her to abandon Riley for the moment. Was someone arriving here? Must be, she presumed, given that the house was located at the end of a long driveway, several hundred feet off the winding mountain road. This was the first vehicle she’d heard since her arrival.

  She hopped to her feet, rushed to the door, and glanced out the narrow panel of glass beside it to see a standard-issue white delivery truck. The logo on the door said TRIXIE’S in a rather elaborate script. Trixie’s?

  She was waiting to see what on earth was coming to “Flyboy” from a place called “Trixie’s” when she happened to glance down and notice her nipples pointing prominently through her little top. And damn it—she only had on panties below, which she’d totally forgotten about, so caught up had she become in Riley’s sensual encounter.

  She dashed for the stairs, jogging toward the master bedroom. Unthinkingly, she shoved open the nearest mirrored closet door and—voilà!—spied a white terry-cloth robe like you sometimes found in hotels. Yanking it from the hanger, she thrust her arms inside.

  When the doorbell rang, she started toward it, tying the robe in front on the way down the stairs. She opened the door to find the young man on the other side smiling at her as if they shared a private joke. “Laura Watkins?”

  She flinched. She’d been sure this would be something for her voyeur. Who knew she was here?

  Wait. Monica, of course. Which made the pieces fit. Trixie’s must be exactly what it sounded like to Laura—some racy lingerie shop. And Monica of the red lace surprise had apparently taken it upon herself to send Laura something else slinky and sexy.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she finally said.

  He handed her a shiny black box sporting an even shinier thick black ribbon. Predictably, she blushed, since they clearly both knew something designed for sex was inside.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, embarrassment overriding any thoughts of a tip, then practically slammed the door in his face, turning the lock. After which she headed to the couch where she had so brazenly touched herself for her stranger last night.

  Wow, apparently Monica was downright determined for Laura to see some action on this trip. Dear God, if her friend only knew about the unexpected—not to mention bizarre—action that had occurred.

  Not that Monica would ever find out. They were best friends, but something about this felt so immeasurably private that she knew she’d never share it with another soul.

  Although it flitted through her mind that another sexy outfit might actually come in handy, under the circumstances.

  Maybe.

  She let out a sigh. Was she really going to do it for him again? Going to keep doing it? Taking her clothes off and rubbing herself to orgasm for a stranger behind a camera? Put in those terms, it sounded absolutely horrifying.

  If only it had felt that way, too, it would be a lot easier to resist the odd temptation.

  As it was, well . . . she hadn’t contemplated it yet today. She’d certainly remembered it. She’d certainly felt alive and energetic—and creative!—today. But she hadn’t thought to the future, to what would happen now. Maybe she just hadn’t let herself.

  And now that she was mulling it over, she simply didn’t know the answer.

  Too hot from the robe, that fast, she untied the belt and let the terry cloth fall from her shoulders. Extracting her arms, she pulled at the black ribbon to untie the rather titillating package.

  Inside, atop black tissue paper lay a white card.

  For tonight. Ten o’clock. Don’t be late, honey.

  Oh God. It wasn’t from Monica. It was from him!

  Swallowing her shock, she cautiously folded back the tissue paper, gasping at what she saw inside. A black velvet corset. Black lace-top stockings. And a purple vibrator shaped like a penis, the likes of which she’d seen only on the one occasion Monica had dragged her into a sex shop. “Oh, dear God,” she murmured.

  Without another thought, she set the box aside, shot to her feet, and took the few short steps to the computer. Since he’d told her to change her screen name, she pulled up her usual IM identity—which she used mostly with Monica—Riley.

  RILEY: Are you there? This is Laura, your houseguest.

  She wasn’t sure yet exactly what she was going to say to him, but it leaned toward letting him know he’d gone too far, and wondering how the hell he’d gotten the package to her so quickly, and telling him she was not going to . . . to . . . use a sexual device while he watched!

  FLYBOY1: Good morning, snowflake.

  What? RILEY: Snowflake?

  FLYBOY1: Just noticed them on your pajamas the other night, that’s all. Before you opened them, I mean. Then I quit noticing anything but you. ;) Who’s Riley?

  RILEY: The main character in my books. FLYBOY1: Are you her?

  RILEY: No. Not really. But after a sigh, honesty made her add: Well, okay, yes, I guess we do have a lot in common.

  FLYBOY1: Then I’m sorry I’ve never read your books. What are they about? I know you write mysteries, but that’s all. What’s Riley’s story?

  Geez, of all the times for him to get inquisitive on a subject other than sex. He’d managed to totally distract her from her purpose.

  RILEY: Riley is a part-time secretary at a private investigations firm by day, but an amateur sleuth by night. She wants desperately to hang up her sensible pumps and be a real detective, but no one in her town takes her seriously or will give her a chance. So she sets about solving mysteries in order to prove herself, but every time she solves one, someone else gets the credit. Her Aunt Mimsey is the only other person who realizes how smart she is, but Aunt Mimsey is kind of dotty, so no one believes her when she sings Riley’s detecting praises. Riley’s only real satisfaction comes from convincing herself she’s a good detective despite what everyone thinks and looking forward to trying to prove it to them next time.

  FLYBOY1: Wow. So does this mean you’re a detective?

  RILEY: No, that’s not the part we have in common.

  FLYBOY1: Then what DO you have in common?

  Laura considered her answer. She’d never actually examined this before right now. RILEY: Well, Riley and I are both smart, sensible, and generally pretty conservative. Which brings me back to why I IMed you. I just got a delivery here.

  FLYBOY1: Ah. That was quick.

  She let out a heavy breath. That’s all he had to say? Well, she’d just go with the flow, especially since that was one of her questions. RILEY: I’ll say. How the hell did you DO that?

  FLYBOY1: Simple, really. An online catalog for a place in Denver, and a phone call. It’s called same-day delivery, honey.

  RILEY: That usually costs an arm and a leg. FLYBOY1: I have a lot of money. What did you think of the gift?

  She hesitated. A minute ago she’d been overcome with a sense of urgency, ready to yell at him for this, but now, faced with the opportunity, she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say. RILEY: I was . . . shocked.

  FLYBOY1: Why?

  RILEY: I’ve never . . .

  I’ve never what? she asked herself. She didn’t know how to say this. But she tried again anyway.

  RILEY: I’ve never really done THAT before.

  FLYBOY1: Really? You’ve never used a vibrator?

  RILEY: No.

  FLYBOY1: Damn, honey.

  RILEY: What does THAT mean?


  FLYBOY1: That now I’m EXTRA glad I got it for you.

  She let out a sigh. Was she so very odd? Did every other woman on the planet own a wide array of such tools? RILEY: Why do you consider a vibrator so vital to my existence?

  FLYBOY1: Because you’re a very sexual person.

  She blinked at the computer, shocked and annoyed. RILEY: How do YOU know?

  FLYBOY1: Are you serious?

  Another sigh. RILEY: Okay, okay. But I told you last night . . . I’m not usually like that. I don’t do those things.

  FLYBOY1: You do now. And you’re beautiful touching yourself, you know. I barely managed to wait until you came before I did. And that’s not a problem I generally have.

  Time to get down to business. And she’d just made a decision. She’d said it herself. She was smart, sensible, and conservative. Not a prim goody-two-shoes who wore turtlenecks and insisted on dating a guy forever before sleeping with him—not anything exorbitant or extreme. But she was simply an even-keeled, middle-of-the-road woman who didn’t go to the other extreme, either. And last night had been inexplicably extreme for her. It was time to get back to normal here. RILEY: I can’t keep doing this.

  FLYBOY1: Why not?

  RILEY: It’s so . . . dirty. And I don’t even know you.

  FLYBOY1: You’re GETTING to know me.

  RILEY: I don’t even know your name.

  FLYBOY1: Braden.

  RILEY: Is that your first name or your last?

  FLYBOY1: First. Braden Stone.

  Laura hesitated. Braden. She liked it. Sounded strong. Rugged. Sexy. But that was hardly a reason to back down on what she was telling him. RILEY: Well . . . I still don’t know you.

  FLYBOY1: And yet you want me.

  True enough. Her pussy was pulsing again just from IMing with him like this. A guy she couldn’t even see, or hear, let alone touch. And damn it, she’d just thought of that part of her body as her pussy again. If she really wanted this to end, that would be a good place to start. In fact, maybe she should just quit thinking about that part of herself period.