I Like Being Watched by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Six

Wynn

 

 

 

It was an interesting turn of events to find myself watching him.

See, I'd heard him going upstairs, his steps hard and purposeful.

Like he hadn't seen me.

More than a little disappointed, I'd gotten off the couch to go back into the office.

To snoop.

I didn't even want to admit it to myself, but I wanted to snoop to see if he'd somehow missed me.

I hadn't exactly been quiet, for God's sake. I'd practically screamed out my orgasm, the one that was made so intense at the thought of him watching me, of his cock hardening in his pants because of me—aching and intolerable.

Moving behind his desk, I found his laptop still open.

And the image of the now-empty den on the screen.

Oh, he'd watched me alright.

And judging by the turned over tissue box on the desk, he'd done more than just felt achy and needy.

He'd jerked off while watching me please myself.

The jolt of pleasure was immediate and undeniable.

What I did next, though, was not.

I liked to be watched.

I didn't like to do the watching.

Yet there was no way I could deny that my hand slid to his laptop, switching through the cameras in his bedroom, then his bath.

And that was where I found him, standing with a confused and hard look on his face as he worked the knot off of his tie, tossing it into the hamper. Next, his fingers went to his shirt.

God, those fingers.

I'd thought about them rolling over my clit, sliding inside my body, as I'd touched myself in the den.

He had nice hands.

It wasn't something I usually noticed about a man, but I'd noted it several times when I was looking at him.

Big, masculine hands with neat fingernails. The perfect hands for finger-fucking a woman.

I'd never seen the man in anything but his perfectly tailored suits. Once, I thought I caught the flash of him coming back from the gym in basketball pants and a tee, but I couldn't say for sure.

I had no idea what was underneath.

Even if I had thought about it, I probably wouldn't have done him justice.

See, when you think of descriptions like "swimmer's body," you inevitably think thin of waist, wide of shoulder, and lean.

But sometimes you forgot that it took a lot of strength to swim well.

I certainly had forgotten that.

Because under Fitzwilliam Buchanan's suit was a whole lot of strength.

The man could have invented the term "washboard abs." None of the muscles were too bulky, but you could see the outline of a perfect eight-pack. And the dips. Good God, the man had those deep lower hip indentations that made your eyes want to follow them down, see where they led.

My eyes?

They were greedy.

So when his fingers undid his pants and boxer briefs, my gaze slid down the indented muscles of his Adonis Belt, finding the thick length of him.

That was another department my imagination wouldn't have done him justice in.

Below his cock were thick, strong thighs, the ones that wouldn't get tired if you wanted to go all night long. The arms, too, were strong and corded, and could more than readily handle as many push-ups as necessary, if you get what I'm saying.

The man was the definition of perfect.

Enough so that I was starting to think maybe it wouldn't hurt me to learn to like plain rice and bland, boring chicken a couple nights a week.

It did the body good.

He was proof of that.

"Oh, damn," I murmured to myself as he turned away from the camera, giving me a view not only of his wide, strong back, but the perfect, rounded, muscular ass of his too.

My desire, so recently sated by the orgasm in the den, hummed to life again as I watched Fitzwilliam Buchanan walk across his bathroom and into his shower where the water burst to life.

I knew his water.

It took a while to get hot. Long pipes for a massive house and all that.

So I knew it was bracingly cold as he stepped under the spray and let it wash over his body.

A thrill moved through me as I realized he wanted the cold shower. Because he'd been so worked up from watching me in the den that he'd jerked off and came all over himself like it was his first time.

He leaned forward, resting his forearm on the marble wall, then his forehead on his arm, just letting the cold water cascade over his body.

I thought I'd been drunk on power in the past, completely shit-faced by the way I could have a man's gaze guiltily watch me when he thought I didn't know, but knowing I brought a man like Fitzwilliam Buchanan to this place of complete overwhelm, this was a drug of a whole new caliber.

I was high off of it.

I was instantly addicted to it.

I needed more of it.

A small, niggling little voice whispered that I might never get enough of it.

So, I watched.

As he soaped up and rinsed off, as he dried off with the giant bath blankets he kept in all his bathrooms, and then I watched as he slipped into another almost identical pair of slacks and dress shirt that he'd left on the counter. He skipped the jacket.

And it was right about then that the doorbell rang.

I was so startled, I pushed away from the desk, knocking the chair into the wall.

I watched the laptop as my boss stiffened too, as realization dawned on him, making him fetch his wallet off of the nightstand.

"I'm coming," he called, even as I watched him rush out of the bathroom.

Things started to register then.

The pizza.

The pizza man at the door.

"Shit," I hissed, hopping up.

I just barely got the seat pushed back when he was reaching the lower landing of the staircase. Heart slamming in my chest, I rushed out from behind the desk.

Just in time.

"Oh," Fitzwilliam said, jolting. "Pizza," he added, brows pinching as he looked at me.

"I'm starved," I said, pretending there wasn't a husky edge to my voice as I said it.

Fitzwilliam's head shook a bit before he made his way to the door. I moved into the doorway in time to see him hand the delivery boy a fifty, and tell him to keep the change before closing the door.

"What?" he asked, seeing the look I knew I must have been giving him.

"I had a brief stint as a delivery driver in college," I told him, following him into the kitchen. "If I got a tip like that now and again instead of sexual innuendos and spare change, it might have been a longer-lived job."

"What did you go to college for?" he asked, reaching for a set of his fancy black stoneware plates with the gold edging and the tiny white speckles.

"Societal disappointment," I said. Then, to his confused face, I added, "Art major."

"Ah, I see," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Blake says you tend to employ those like me."

"Like you? No."

God, he sounded so serious, so severe when he said that.

"I mean people like me. With less... useful passions in life. I think Blake said a cosplayer and an illustrator and an actress, among others."

"Which I believe says more about my brother's subpar selections than about their passions in life," Fitz said, sliding a slice of pizza onto my plate. "What do you do? Paint? Or draw? Sculpt?" he asked, eyeing his own slice a bit dubiously.

"I paint," I told him. "It's not going to bite, you know," I told him, catching a smirk toying at his lips.

"I'm working myself up to it," he claimed, putting down the plate, and going toward his wine rack instead. "Red?" he asked.

I shouldn't drink on the job.

I damn sure shouldn't drink on the job with a man whose cock I'd just been admiring not ten minutes before.

"Sure," I agreed, watching him check a few labels before deciding on one.

The last guy I'd dated thought beer in bottles was "fancy." So it was surprisingly appealing to watch a man who clearly knew a thing or two about the finer things in life carefully select a bottle of wine for you to share.

"Good?" he asked after handing me a long-stemmed glass.

"It doesn't taste like the watered-down rubbing alcohol taste that my three-dollar wine does, so yes," I told him, mentally making a note to replace the bottle the following workday. "Come on. I tried your wine. You try the pizza."

"I've had pizza," he insisted, moving back toward his plate.

"When?"

"It was a staple in college. Back when I didn't need to workout to stay fit," he told me, folding his slice, then taking a bite.

There was a low groan that escaped him that moved through my chest, then slid lower.

"Better than rice and unseasoned chicken, huh?" I teased, taking a bite of my own.

Maybe I was imagining it because I was still too turned on for my own good, but I was pretty sure his gaze slipped to watch as I slid the slice into my mouth, then took a bite.

"Let's just say, they both have their place," he agreed.

"A cheat day won't kill you."

"So, Fridays," he said. "You can order terrible food and force me to eat it."

He'd looked almost taken aback at his own words. Like he hadn't meant to say them. But I didn't want to let him take them back.

"I would love to watch your disgust at something truly atrocious. Like cheap, greasy tacos."

"Have some mercy," he demanded, eyes dancing as he finished off his first slice.

"None," I promised him.

And I meant it in more than one way.

The food, sure.

But also the shows for the cameras.

Now that I knew for sure he was watching.

And he was enjoying.

Oh, things were just getting started.