I Like Being Watched by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five

Fitz

 

 

 

 

You would almost think she was doing it on purpose.

That was how often one of the cameras caught her bent over just the right way, or her skirt slipping up when she reached over her head.

It was constant.

Daily.

More than a few times a day.

But, of course, she couldn't have been doing it on purpose.

That made no sense.

She was just a woman doing a job.

Sure, after the fourth straight day of wardrobe malfunctions, I perhaps thought she should decide to stop wearing button-up shirts, but that didn't mean there was anything untoward going on.

All that said, she was fucking killing me.

I had my reasons for the cameras. I didn't just set and forget them. Every night as I ate my dinner, I scanned through them quickly.

Well, I used to scan through them quickly.

Now?

Now, I sat down only after I was finished with dinner, a glass of whiskey at my side, with the house empty and quiet.

I set the fucking scene every night. Which ended up making me feel like a creep. But that didn't stop me as I went room to room as Wynn did, watching as she somehow managed to be exceptionally efficient and ball-achingly provocative at the same time.

Who looked sexy when wiping off a bookshelf?

Apparently, Wynn did.

And those breasts of hers seemed to have a mind of their own, breaking free from every single top she put on.

Sometimes, the woman didn't even have a bra on, her dusty pink nipples on full display while she continued to go about her job, seemingly oblivious to being exposed. How, I don't know. But nothing about her behavior implied she was intentionally exposing her chest or bending over and putting her whole ass on display for one of the cameras.

When I passed her in the hall, she was pure innocence, completely professional.

It was always Mr. Buchanan this. And Mr. Buchanan that.

I should have fired her the first time I watched one of those feeds of the security footage and my cock hardened, demanded attention, relief.

It was a recipe for disaster that I found myself horny as a fucking teenager for a woman who was working for me.

That said, it wasn't her fault.

And I would feel like an asshole firing her for something that she had nothing to do with. She was doing her job. And, admittedly, she was probably the best house manager I'd had over the years. I never had to leave a note about something running out or some errand not being handled. The pool was cleaner than it had ever been. The leaves that had been scattered on the driveway that seemed to always be there for a week before someone handled them, were gone by the time I got home in the evening, and never showed up again.

That old saying about good help being hard to find was true. In my experience, most of my house managers did the absolute bare minimum they could and still get paid. The musician used to bring her guitar and do live videos on social media for good chunks while on the clock. The illustrator spent at least an hour sitting at my desk doodling on her sketch pad. That last one—the actress—was constantly taking selfies in various spots in the house.

But whenever Wynn was around, she was doing something. Dusting, sweeping, mopping, cleaning bathrooms, reorganizing the pantry and the closets, going to the store, coming back and unpacking. She was busy from the moment she arrived until I got home, when she seemed to come out of her work fog. Maybe because she was interrupted. Most days, she was on her own save for the days when Elsbeth was around, bustling in the kitchen. On those days, Wynn got out of Elsbeth's hair, going to clean the upstairs instead. She seemed to thrive on her own, got in the zone, and handled shit.

I appreciated that.

It was a rare quality these days.

I would know. I had a hundred employees in my main office building. And most of them needed to be babysat, needed their hands held, needed constant motivation, were not self-starters. There were always a handful of team members who carried most of the weight. Adult professional life was like a constant high school group project. One person was there to create more problems. One was there to dick around and frustrate everyone else. One really never showed up. And then one? One did all the work, got the A for everyone else.

I tried, at work, to reward those who handled it all.

So to fire one in my home when they did so as well was asinine.

I should have just stopped watching, fast forwarded through the scenes that got hot. I couldn't seem to muster that sort of self-control, though.

It was a ritual every night.

"Mr. Buchanan," Wynn said, pulling me out of my swirling thoughts. I was supposed to be focusing on the report in front of me. I wasn't sure a single word of it had sunk in.

"Yeah?" I asked, raking a hand through my hair as a sigh escaped me.

"Can I get you something to eat?" she asked, surprising me. "You've been in here for over two hours," she added in that honey-sweet voice of hers.

"If that is the case, why are you still here?" I asked, glancing over at the clock. Sure, I left my office early on Fridays, but that didn't mean the work stopped there. And it always meant that the staff cleared out early to give me my privacy.

"The crew that is glazing the garage floor are taking longer than they said they would. Something about humidity levels," she said, rolling her eyes like she wasn't buying it. "It's not a big deal. I have nothing else going on. I want to make sure they do a good job. You're paying a small fortune for it," she added.

I wouldn't have even noticed the money being gone.

But I would have noticed the job not being done right.

So I appreciated her keeping an eye on them. I had completely forgotten they were even coming that evening.

"Ah, yes. Food."

"Which disgustingly healthy thing do you want tonight? Plain rice and an unseasoned chicken breast?" she asked, lips curving upward, teasing.

"You have a problem with healthy food?" I asked, brow lifting, wondering how she kept in shape if she didn't eat healthy herself.

"No. I enjoy a good salad as much as the next person. But you have to have a little variety in life. Cheese once a month never killed anyone, you know."

Eating healthy meant that I didn't have to work as hard in the gym to stay fit. But if I were being honest, eating had long since become something rote. Like brushing my teeth. Like flossing. Something necessary, but not overly enjoyable.

"Alright. How about you order pizza then? We can both use something to eat."

What the fuck was that?

I didn't eat dinner with my employees.

It blurred lines.

It made it harder to terminate them if the situation called for it when you shared a meal while discussing personal details.

"You want me to order pizza?" she asked, brows pinched like this news made no sense.

"That's what I said."

"What kind of pizza?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter? Are you sure? Because people put sardines on pizza. They put baked beans on pizza."

"In that case, cheese. Or pepperoni. Nothing crazy."

"Alright. Got it. From the petty cash?" she asked, reaching to pull a small notebook out of her back pocket. I imagined she kept a tally in there as she used money on errands. I had no doubt that there would be a spreadsheet with receipts attached on my desk when the cash was gone.

"I'll handle it. Go take a break for a bit."

She offered me a smile I struggled to interpret. Something relieved yet somehow excited at the same time.

"Okay. Thank you, Mr. Buchanan."

With that, she turned to walk off, that perfect ass of hers distracting me until she was out of view, going back toward the den, from the sound of her footsteps.

It was wrong.

God, it was so fucking wrong.

But my hand moved to the screen on my computer, clicking through my cameras, finding the one for the den, and blowing it up to overtake the screen.

There Wynn was, running her fingertips across the back of the dark brown material of the couch as she reached up with her other hand, pulling her hair free, shaking it around her shoulders. I swear it happened in slow motion, almost as if she was purposely making the move look as sexual as possible.

That was absurd, of course. She was alone. There was no reason to make something seem sexy when on your own.

So she was simply that hot all the time.

I didn't need to know that.

I was having a hard enough time keeping sane with her in my house.

She lowered herself down on the couch, giving me her profile as she pulled out her phone, searched around for a moment for—I imagined—a pizza place in the area, then dialing. I could hear the sounds of her voice, but not the words, not wanting to turn the volume up in case she might hear the echo of her voice from my study.

She hung up, slipping out of her shoes, softly rolling her neck before turning, lifting her legs up, lowering herself back on the couch, her legs facing the camera.

One of her arms lifted, her forearm resting on her forehead, her eyes going half-closed as her other hand rested on her stomach for a moment.

Before shifting downward.

Fuck.

Downward.

Over the top of her thigh.

Her fingertips traced the hem of her skirt.

My breath felt caught in my chest as I waited, sure it was going to end there, but also hopeful it wouldn't.

Then her fingers slipped her skirt upward, over her thigh, bunching it up near her hips, exposing a red lacy thong.

One of her legs lifted, went at an angle, foot planted on the cushion.

And then her hand slipped between her thighs, stroked up the crease of her thigh, then over the top of her panties before slipping under.

"Fuck," I hissed, my cock already hard, throbbing, begging for release.

My finger slipped to the volume button, sliding it upward, needing to hear her, catching the end of a small gasping sound as her finger slid over her pussy.

It was insane and inappropriate, but my hand slid down, undoing my belt, my button and zipper. As her fingers started working circles around her clit, my hand grasped my cock, pulling it out, stroking.

Through the speakers, her ragged breath was getting drowned out by soft, mewling noises as her chest started to rise and fall more quickly.

Her hand shifted, fingers slipping downward.

Her back arched as she let out a throaty moan as her fingers slipped inside her pussy.

I damn near came right then and there.

"Ohhh... yes," she whimpered, her hips rocking to meet the thrusts of her fingers as her other hand moved upward over her belly, sliding each button loose.

I swear each inch of exposed flesh was like a stab of need to my system before, finally, the last button was undone, and the sides slipped open, her bare breasts spilling out.

"Fuck," I hissed, stroking my cock harder, faster, as Wynn's hand closed over her breast, squeezing for a second before releasing. Her fingers moved to her nipple, tracing over it until it formed a hardened point, then rolling it between her thumb and forefinger for a long moment. "Pinch it," I murmured to myself, needing more. But it was almost as if she heard the demand because she grabbed her nipple, pinching, pulling, until she arched up off the couch with a deep, ragged moan.

I slid the volume a little higher so I could lean back in my chair and still hear her hitched breathing, her soft whimpers, her moans.

I watched as she slid another finger into her panties. And, judging by the way she spread her thighs a little wider, and the way her hips rose upward, that she slipped that third finger inside of her dripping pussy.

What was she thinking about as she finger-fucked herself?

Was she just lost in the sensations?

Or was she imagining someone's cock buried deep inside her, driving her up toward an orgasm?

Could she have possibly been thinking about my cock?

Why else would she feel the sudden need to fuck herself in my den after speaking to me?

A pathetic, needy part of me wanted her to be thinking about my thick cock deep inside her, stretching her, making her mine as she moaned and cried out, as her walls got tighter and tighter until...

"Fuck," I groaned as Wynn's orgasm slammed through her system, making her legs shake, and making her cry out loudly, too far gone to even care if she'd been heard.

She'd been heard alright.

And she'd brought me with her as she came, leaving me hissing and panting and completely spent after.

For all of two long minutes before I realized I came all over my fucking self.

Like some inexperienced incel.

"Christ," I hissed, grabbing for some tissues as I stood up.

I had to get upstairs before she came back out of the den. I had to clean myself up. And get myself together.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I never reacted like that to a woman.

And I was damn sure never a fucking creep, jerking off to a woman who didn't know I was watching her.

I needed to get a hold of myself.

I had to stop watching Wynn.