Voyeur - Lacey Alexander [20]
Which, as dusk began to color the snow beyond the window a pale, flat gray, forced her mind back to Braden’s gift, still on the couch all these hours later, taunting her. She turned in the rolling desk chair to look at it again, thinking what a nice, carefree day she’d had, having successfully banished it from her mind. Clearly, she’d been in denial.
Did he really think she was going to use that toy in front of him? Given that she’d never even used such a thing by herself, for heaven’s sake? Even if she wanted to, trying out such a thing on camera just seemed like a bad idea.
So she’d ignore the gift, she decided.
And she’d ignore the clock tonight, too—ten would come and go without consequence, and her voyeur would be forced to see that she simply wasn’t into this. She might have seemed into it the past two nights, but that shocking purple monstrosity had brought her back to her senses. Getting to her feet, she grabbed the box and took the whole thing up to the bedroom, just to get it out of her direct line of vision.
Having thawed a hamburger patty, Laura turned on a little music—a local pop station—then made herself a simple dinner, adding frozen crinkle fries to the burger. Flipping on the instant-but-still-cozy fire, she decided to settle in for an evening of reading after finishing her meal. No erotica tonight, though. Hemingway. Definitely Hemingway.
When she approached the bookshelf, extracting A Farewell to Arms, her eyes landed on the picture of her “flyboy” again. Of course, her stomach churned at the heat a mere photo managed to give off, yet she said aloud, “You might be hot, but this has gone far enough. It stops now.”
Two hours later, she still sat on the sofa reading . . . or trying to. She let out a sigh at the realization that she’d just read two full pages without having any idea what they said. Drat. She loved this book and it had been years since she’d read it. She should have been completely drawn in by Lieutenant Henry and his English nurse, but instead she found herself—most unwittingly—thinking about much more tawdry liaisons.
Another sigh had her setting the book aside and slowly padding up the stairs into the bedroom. It was high time for that shower she’d put off all day. And as she shed her clothes and stepped under the warm, soothing spray, she ignored the fact that it was his shower and, in fact, reminded herself that the guy was hardly ever here. It wasn’t nearly so much his shower as a place he’d showered on occasion.
So she tried not to envision him standing naked in this same spot in the huge marble shower as she rubbed soap over her body—and she tried desperately not to feel her own response to even that minor stimulation.
Would he like the way she looked soapy?
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her breasts decorated with bright white suds, the taut nipples peeking through, at her stomach and thighs, so slick and smooth-looking as bubbles clung to them, as well. Yes, he would definitely like it. He’d also like taking the round, spongy thing she was using and running it over her breasts, as she did now. He’d surely let his fingertips reach around the soft sponge to glide over her rounded flesh, and then the flat of her stomach. Her pussy tingled as she wished he could do just that—touch her in the shower.
Stop this.
Taking a deep breath, she banished the naughty thoughts from her mind for what seemed the fiftieth time since she’d arrived in the mountainside home, then rinsed hurriedly. She wrapped herself in a big plush bath sheet and stepped into the bedroom—where the corset lay on the bed.
She’d been so distressed over it earlier that she hadn’t really seen it, hadn’t let herself study the details, but now she couldn’t help but admire how soft yet sophisticated it appeared.