Voyeur - Lacey Alexander [10]
Another glass of wine and maybe she’d get sleepy enough to go to bed early—as in before ten o’clock.
A few hours later, Laura lay in bed in her snowflake pajamas, tossing and turning. Like last night, the wine had left her more loopy than sleepy, but she’d gone to bed anyway. Of course, she’d taken a volume of Anaïs Nin with her and, before turning the lights out, had read about a woman having her “sex” shaved by two men. They’d touched the freshly smooth skin there, then teased her open with erotic brushes of a feather. Another story had featured a woman riding a large rocking horse with a knob built in to rub her clit.
God, what a stupid thing to have let herself read!
She couldn’t resist shifting her gaze from the vaulted ceiling to the digital bedside clock. 9:54.
She tenderly bit her lip, trying madly to ignore the way her own sex pulsed, begging for her touch. Or his touch. Any touch.
Of course, she couldn’t do what he’d asked of her. There was simply no way. Last night had been bad enough, but to know for sure he was watching? And to reveal herself to him—fully. She shook her head against her pillow. You can’t. For God’s sake, you don’t even know his name.
Even so, she found her breath trembling and her belly clenching way down low as she reached to push back the covers.
Maybe she didn’t know herself as well as she thought.
Chapter Three
It had been a damn long day.
Because unlike last night when he’d simply unzipped his pants, pulled out his aching cock, and jacked off, today he’d been stupid enough to wait, to want to hover on the edge of excitement all day, anticipating what might happen tonight. It was like a game he’d wanted to play with himself—with her, too.
Now his dick physically hurt. He’d floated somewhere between half-hard and full-blown erection all day, through meetings, phone calls, and lunch with a senior V.P. with whom he was doing some important negotiations.
The whole time he’d been fantasizing about Laura Watkins, mystery author, sex kitten. She didn’t think she was a sex kitten, that was clear. But he knew she was—he’d seen the proof, and gotten off to it. Her hot little show, combined with their steamy conversation this morning, had excited him more than anything had in a very long time.
Now, as he sat in his Malibu home in a dark, quiet room lit only by his computer screen, a warm sea breeze wafting through an open window behind him, he found himself watching the clock, feeling as eager as a teenager getting his first peek at Internet porn. And he began to relive a few of the fantasies that had grown in his mind around lovely Laura today at times when he most definitely should have been focusing on his work. Yep, millions of dollars at stake every hour, and he’d been fantasizing about a woman. But he’d felt powerless to stop—the images had simply kept invading his brain without his permission.
During a meeting with Cressler, Inc.’s entire board of directors, he’d imagined her in the Jacuzzi in the Vail house, soaping her luscious breasts, tweaking those hard, pretty nipples, then rising on her knees to run a soapy cloth between her thighs, sighing just like she had last night on the webcam.
Those visions alone were enough to keep him going for awhile, but by the time he got stuck on hold waiting for one of his investors around eleven, he’d imagined a sexy Laker girl he’d once dated walking into the master suite’s bathroom, just as naked as Laura. Pam possessed a lush, curvy body, much like sexy Ms. Watkins’, so envisioning the two of them together seemed a foregone conclusion for a guy who admittedly got off on the idea of women fooling around with each other. Pam’s long blond hair had been swept up off her neck in a clip, her pussy waxed bare—and he knew from experience she kept it that way. Laura’s hair had hung finer, a warm shade of chestnut, and fell just past her shoulders, but in the fantasy, Pam had moved behind her and pulled it up into another clip, as well.
Pam had stepped into the bathtub filled with bubble bath and whirling water, kneeling across