I Like Being Watched by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thirteen

Fitz

 

 

 

She'd been true to her word.

At least partially.

I did "see her down there" after she spent half an hour freshening up.

I wasn't sure what kind of freshening up she'd done, but when she'd made it back downstairs after, there was something cold and untouchable about her. In fact, she'd even smoothed away the golden traces of my touch from her dress. Front and back.

Like she was trying to erase what had happened.

But, no. That made no sense. She'd initiated it. Since the beginning, she'd always been the one to initiate. Hell, she'd literally asked for it, demanded I fuck her right there in full display of anyone who might happen through the foyer.

Damn if it hadn't been the best fucking sex of my life too.

So much so that my cock got half hard anytime I spotted her or even smelled her scent in the air if she passed by.

The thing was, she'd made it a point to avoid being anywhere near me for the rest of the evening. She'd spent all her time engaging the wives who'd come, then dipping off to the kitchen or talking to the servers, all the while avoiding Robert.

And me.

I'd just gotten close enough at one point to reach out, to pull her into the hallway to demand to know what was going on when my damn brother came bursting in, already half drunk with a girl who hadn't even attempted to go for classy with the bright pink dress with hipbone cutouts.

I couldn't look away from Blake or his date for the rest of the evening, lest they do or say something that would compromise the deal. Hell, just having them there was embarrassing enough. I needed to make sure they didn't make it any worse than it was.

But because of that, Wynn had somehow managed not only to disappear from the crowd, but hide out somewhere even after it dispersed.

She'd stuck behind until all the staff had left. But before I could uncover her hiding spot, I caught sight of her tail lights as she pulled out of the driveway.

I should have been exhausted. True, Wynn had handled all the preparation for the event, but I wasn't a party person by nature. So all the socializing had been foreign and draining.

Any other time, I would have fallen into bed immediately after, sleeping it off.

Instead, though, I found myself sitting in my study with a drink in my hand, trying to figure out what the hell had happened with Wynn.

That was another first for me. I'd never been someone who analyzed their interaction with the opposite sex. I always accepted it at face value. Good, bad, or indifferent. There was never any reason to analyze it because it never meant anything.

This shouldn't have meant anything either.

But, somehow, I guess it did.

I wanted to tell myself it was just because we'd been explosive with each other, that I'd never felt that exhilarated before, had never come so hard in my life.

But after two drinks, I dragged myself up to my bedroom, stripping out of clothes that still had her scent all over them, and dropping into bed with one realization: it wasn't about the sex.

I mean, sure, it was a factor. Sex was always a factor. If you were having it, if you weren't, it was always something to consider. But sex wasn't the only reason I couldn't get her out of my head, was it?

There was some sort of connection between us, something that was both exciting yet comfortable at the same time.

I'd been a lifelong workaholic. I'd always felt more comfortable at the office than at home. Somehow, though, knowing Wynn was there gave me something to look forward to. I'd been cutting workdays short several times a week since she'd started to work for me.

I told myself that it was just because I wanted to watch the cameras, see what show she was putting on for me. There was that, of course. I won't deny it. I did a lot of thinking with my dick when it came to Wynn. It was more than that, though. The house felt more comfortable with her there. It had been surprisingly nice to have someone to talk to, even about banal house shit, or even to listen to her rib me relentlessly about the art in the house.

I'd never shared my life or home with a woman before.

I liked it more than I had any right to.

Especially since she didn't belong to me.

I didn't want anyone to belong to me.

And certainly not one of my employees.

The thing was, though, I'd been reconsidering my feelings on that last point sometime between the pool and the balcony in the foyer.

Sure, the sex was good. And, in my opinion, good sex was a worthy pursuit in life.

But it was more than that.

And I wanted it to continue to be more than that.

I guess I never considered the fact that maybe Wynn didn't feel the same way.

But after the third workday passed after the party with her managing to somehow avoid me at every turn, no matter how relentlessly I tried to catch her for a minute, I guess there was no denying that she was absolutely avoiding me.

But why?

Because she regretted what we'd done?

Or because she was done with me once we'd done it?

Maybe for her it was all about the tease, the chase, the excitement of the lead-up, more so than actually sealing the deal. Once all the teasing and chasing was done, and the orgasms had settled, perhaps it was all over for her. Maybe she wanted to go off to the next conquest.

Unexpectedly, a sharp stabbing sensation pierced my chest at that thought, acute enough to have my hand raising, rubbing at my heart.

"What's the matter, Big Brother, is it shrinking another couple sizes?" Blake asked, waltzing into my study, looking hungover and scruffy. I just barely resisted the urge to ask if he'd gone into work looking like that, knowing it was only going to lead to a fight, and I just didn't have the energy or mental wherewithal to deal with that right then.

"Cute," I said, tone dry, reaching for the envelope he handed me. "What's this?"

"I don't know. Came by courier today. Wynn came to get me to sign for it."

So she would talk to Blake, outwardly seek out Blake, but not me. Her avoidance definitely wasn't all in my mind.

One glance at the label told me all I needed to know.

"Aren't you going to open it?"

"No."

"It's important enough to require a signature, but not to open?"

"Correct."

"Fine," Blake said, sighing. "I'm going out."

"You look like you need to sleep more than have another night out."

Shit.

I regretted it the second it was out of my mouth.

Because within three minutes, as usual, we were all but screaming at each other.

It never took much for us to get to the point of raised voices and dredging up old shit. It didn't matter how many times we'd done it, or how much resentment old arguments had already put upon our relationship. We just didn't seem capable of being calm and rational with each other.

"For God's sake," another voice joined, raised to be heard over ours. "Are you serious right now? Wynn added, standing in the doorway to the study with her hands fisted on her hips. "You sound like a couple of squabbling five-year-olds. You're grown-ass men, for chrissakes. Act like it. The whole damn neighborhood can hear you hauling insults at each other."

"Squabbling," Blake repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth. He'd always been able to bring his anger from one-hundred down to one much faster than I could. "You don't hear that word much anymore. It's a good word."

"Yeah, it's much nicer than 'coldhearted dickhead,' don't you think?" she asked, tone pointed, brow arched.

"I have a... colorful vocabulary," Blake said, giving her one of his boyish smiles that made me want to reach out and slap it off his face. Because it always allowed him to get away with anything he wanted.

I was taking special exception to the way he was using it on Wynn.

Apparently, though, Wynn was more immune to it than others.

"No, Blake. That isn't a colorful vocabulary. It's name-calling. And it's the sign of a weak argument."

"Or is it a crude observation of an undeniable truth?" Blake shot back, talking about me like I wasn't standing right fucking there.

"I think it is proof that you and your brother have some issues you clearly need to work on. With some sort of impartial mediator," Wynn said, shaking her head at him. "All of this is unproductive. I'm sure you have other things you'd rather be doing than arguing what I can only assume is the same old argument with your brother."

"You are right about that," Blake said, nodding. "Lots of pretty ladies out there I could be making smile instead. Care to go get a drink and be one of them?" he asked.

I hoped to hell the growl I let out at his words wasn't loud enough for either of them to hear from across the room. There was no denying to myself, however, that was exactly what it was. A growl. A base, primal sound brought about by the prospect of Wynn spending her free time with my brother.

I'd never been a possessive man before. I'd never cared enough about a woman to be upset when her free time wasn't saved for me.

I guess that was further proof that I didn't just want to keep fucking Wynn. I wanted something more than that.

"I can't."

"Hot date?" Blake asked.

It was a throwaway kind of question, but I felt my stomach twisting for a long second before she answered.

"Yes, with my paintbrush and a fresh canvas."

"Oh, right. I forgot you play around with art in your free time."

Well, if I'd been worrying Wynn might transfer her interest from me to the much more laid-back and fun Blake, it all slipped away with that comment. As well as her reaction to it.

Her eyes blazed bright enough to damn near scorch me from across the room. Her jaw tightened. Her chin raised. And her arms crossed over her chest.

If you wanted to piss off a creative person, implying that their craft was something to be fiddled with in their free time after working at their 'real job' was a pretty damn good way to do it.

Wynn looked two seconds away from starting an argument with Blake that would rival the one I'd just had with him.

"Blake, I think you are going to want to shut your mouth and leave," I suggested even as he seemed to notice the same thing about Wynn that I did right then.

"Right. Yeah. I, you know, didn't mean anything," he said, rushing out.

"You never do," I grumbled to myself even as my gaze fell on Wynn again, practically shaking in her rage.

"He's an idiot who doesn't think before he speaks," I told her, watching as her gaze cut to me. "I can't apologize for his ignorance, but he doesn't speak for the whole family," I added. "I know your art is an important part of your life, and that the time you dedicate to it is valid."

At that, she took a slow, deep breath, and exhaled it on a sigh as her arms fell down at her sides.

"Thank you. I know it shouldn't get a rise out of me. I've been hearing it all my life that art isn't a 'real job.' And, I guess, for most of us, it isn't. We tend to have to go out and get jobs that will pay the bills."

"I'm sure you will make a name for yourself in due time," I told her. She was smart and dedicated. If she set her mind to succeeding, I didn't doubt she would get there eventually. No matter the odds. "Whenever there is a rule, there are exceptions to it."

"That's true," she agreed, relaxing by the second. "And Blake might be a nice enough guy, but..." she started, trailing off as she waved a hand outward.

"He has absolutely no idea how the world works? Yeah, I'm painfully aware of that fact."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why do you take care of him? I know it might be a cultural thing, but in the middle or even upper-middle class, when you have an irresponsible ingrate, the caretakers tend to cut them off eventually, so they get a chance to get a kick in the ass that will set them on the right path."

"It's our father," I told her, shrugging. "He asked me to look after Blake."

"I understand that. But would your father insist that to do that, you would need to put up with the disrespect he always gives you?"

"You have a point," I admitted. "My father was more tolerant of Blake's behavior than he would have been with me. I think age softens parenting styles. But he would never have put up with the way Blake destroys the house." Amongst other things.

"I mean, I'm not saying you should cut him out of your life, or off completely. But maybe if he had to learn how much things actually cost because he has to pay his own rent, utilities, food, and furnishing costs, he would be more considerate."

"You're not wrong," I agreed.

"But it's hard," she concluded for me.

"It probably shouldn't be, considering all he's done. But yes."

"Maybe because you still see him as your little brother instead of a full-grown man."

"Again, you're not wrong," I agreed.

"It's probably easier for me to say it than for you to act on it. I'm an only child. I don't fully understand the sibling dynamic."

"It's a tough one to explain," I admitted. "I spend eighty-percent of my time arguing with him or being pissed at him, but I can't shake the attachment either."

"That's... unexpectedly sweet, though."

"I'm not a complete asshole," I said, tensing.

"I never said you were."

"I know you see me as cold and—"

"You don't know what I think about you," she cut me off, shaking her head.

"I'm coming to conclusions since you seem to be avoiding me like I've contracted the plague."

"I'm working," she countered, but I thought it was telling that she didn't say she wasn't avoiding me.

"Must be more difficult work than usual," I observed. "Your usual uniform has changed."

Gone were the dresses and skirts that could easily slide up. She'd been wearing slacks since the party. High-waisted slacks with tucked in button-up shirts that she actually buttoned all the way up. And wore a bra under just for added concealment.

"It's been really cold out," she told me.

And, to be fair, she wasn't lying. December's freeze had come on hard and fast, plummeting the average daily temperatures to an average of thirty, with colder nights and mornings.

"Oh, speaking of that," I said, though it was a weak segue at best. Moving around my desk, I went into the top drawer to pull out a new key fob. I spun it around my finger before tossing it toward her.

She caught it with drawn together brows. "What's this? Do you need your car washed?" she asked.

"No. That is the key to the car I want you to use."

"Wait... what?" she asked, looking more confused than before.

"No offense, Wynn, but I swear your car was hacking up a lung last night. You need to be driving something reliable if you are going to be able to get your work done around here."

"Oh, okay. So I will drive this when I run the errands, and just save gas receipts for you?" she asked.

"You will drive it to and from work as well."

"What? No."

"Yes. If your car finally craps out on you when you need to be here to oversee something being done, there will be a problem. Drive this car instead. And, yes, save the gas receipts."

"And mileage reports," she muttered.

"No. I don't give a shit about the mileage."

"But what if I used it for personal use?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"Again, I don't give a shit about that. It's just a car."

"Just a..." she started, her gaze going down to the fob, seeing the logo there. "This is not just a car."

"Sure it is."

"This is a touchscreen key fob. I can't imagine how expensive the car that goes with this is."

"Wynn, it's just a car."

"What if I crash it? Or dent it with a shopping cart?" she asked, eyes big.

"Then I will fix it."

"That's ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is that we're arguing over this," I countered.

"This isn't an argument. This is me informing you that I can't be driving around a luxury car."

"Why not?"

"Because... because it isn't mine."

"It is yours in everything but the actual title. I don't see the problem."

And I won't have to worry about you freezing on your way to and from my house anymore, either.

Not that it was appropriate to think about shit like that when it came to an employee. But, then again, there was a lot that was inappropriate about what went on with Wynn and me.

Or, at least, there had been.

"I..." Wynn started, not sure what she was going to say, but wanting to object.

"It's not a big deal."

"What if it gets stripped? I don't live in the nicest area."

There was a twisting sensation in my gut at her words. I couldn't help but picture her in some crummy apartment in some bad area of town with unsavory sorts waiting in dark alleys to reach out to her.

I had the most irrational urge to demand she move into the guest room. Hell, into my goddamn bedroom.

What the hell was going on with me?

"I won't hold you responsible."

"I, ah, I'm going to need to see that in writing," Wynn declared, giving me a nod.

"That will ease your mind?"

"Yes."

"Fine," I said, grabbing my notepad and pen. "'Wynn is in no way responsible for any damage or mileage that might happen to the car I have given to her to use while she is under my employ. Signed Fitzwilliam Buchanan. Good enough?"

"I think it isn't binding unless it's notarized."

"You're serious?" I asked, a laugh escaping me.

"Kinda, yeah."

"Alright. I will get it notarized on my way to work tomorrow."

"Good."

"So, you'll drive it."

"Well, not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because I have my car here," she said, shrugging.

"I will get it towed back to your place."

"What? No."

"It's done," I said, already reaching for the phone.

"Um, no. No, it's not done."

"Hi, yes. I need my car towed," I said into my phone, cutting off her objection. She stood there in pensive silence as I finished the phone call. "There," I declared when I was done. "All handled. Happy?"

"I don't understand," Wynn admitted.

"It's not complicated. You have a more reliable car to drive, so I can depend on you to continue to do your job to my satisfaction."

"But..."

"But nothing."

"Mr. Buchanan—" she started, making a frustrated sigh escape me.

"Mr. Buchanan?" I asked, brow raising in a way that said Aren't we beyond that?

"Fitz," she said instead, voice a little airless.

I had her off-kilter.

And I liked it more than I should have, given the situation.

I could probably have approached her then, demanded an explanation for the change in her behavior since we'd had sex. But something inside me said this was the better way to play it. Keep her confused and surprised. I would get more from her that way.

Maybe I'd even get some answers.

Maybe I'd get her to agree to be more than just a fuck-buddy.

What?

No.

I didn't do more than casual encounters.

Even as I tried to remind myself of that fact, though, there was another part of me that was screaming that I wanted more than a few weeks of teasing and one fuck, that I wanted more than the physical in general.

What the hell was that about?

"Are you done for the night?" I asked, hearing the roughness in my tone as my mind went to battle with itself.

"Ah, yeah."

"Head on out. The car is in the first garage," I told her.

"Right," she agreed nodding, then turning, starting to walk away before turning back. "Mr... Fitz," she said, catching herself.

"Yes?"

"Thank you," she said, looking even more confused than before.

"You're welcome."

And with that, she was gone, leaving me with my swirling thoughts to keep me company for the rest of the night.

Hours later, I was no closer to coming to any sort of rational understanding about my confusing feelings for Wynn.

But I did know one thing.

I wanted more.

And I was going to do whatever it took to get that.