Voyeur - Lacey Alexander [3]
That’s when she noticed the tiny little light across the room. A minute green dot on a gadget next to the colossal computer screen—the homeowner’s computer, but Monica had told her to feel free to use it.
She froze in place, her hand going still as she realized she’d totally forgotten Monica’s giggling warning. “By the way, you might want to avoid walking through the living room naked.” It had come during the phone call when Monica had been giving her directions from the Eagle-Vail airport, instructions on how to get inside the house, all that.
“Well, I hadn’t planned on it,” she’d said, “but why?”
“My cousin has a webcam on his computer there.”
“He’s going to spy on me?”
Monica had laughed. “No, nothing like that. He just uses it to check in on the house occasionally when he’s not there. He once told me that when he knows someone’s coming to stay, he sometimes peeks in just to make sure they arrived okay. So no worries—just figured I should mention it.”
Now Laura couldn’t help wondering if there was any chance she was being watched. Surely not. It was late—after 2 A.M. Monica’s cousin, a rich guy who had something to do with corporate takeovers, was surely asleep by now. As she should be. But she was not. So what if he was awake, too?
Unlikely.
Yet . . . she couldn’t ignore the slight feeling that someone was watching her, that same feeling you get when someone in a crowded room hones in on you. Only this was no crowded room. It was complete seclusion. Wasn’t it?
She swallowed nervously and let her fingers glide lightly over her mound once more. They left little trails of fire. She bit her lip, her skin tingling with the new questions surrounding her. What if Monica’s cousin was witnessing this? Shouldn’t she stop? Shouldn’t she snatch up her pj bottoms and flee the room this instant? And still, to her surprise, the idea that maybe he was taking in her private touches added to her arousal, made her cunt pulse with an even harder need.
She tried to remember what she knew about him. Shockingly little. There was the corporate takeover thing. “He’s like those guys in the movie Wall Street, but nicer,” Monica had said. What else had her friend told her? He wasn’t married. He was some kind of pilot in his spare time—as evidenced by the vintage flying paraphernalia decorating part of the mountain home. He was in his thirties and handsome, Monica had supplied. “Your basic rich, confirmed bachelor type.” With horror, Laura realized she didn’t even know the man’s name.
And yet she was rubbing her pussy for him.
If he was even watching. Again, she reminded herself that chances were slim—surely he wasn’t.
But in that leaning-toward-surreal moment, she almost wanted him to be. Her breasts seemed to bloom with new desire at the confirmation. She wanted this man she didn’t know to watch her play with herself.
In fact, the concept excited her so much that she decided to just pretend he was. Likely that light on the computer burned all day and all night, all the time, not really indicating if anyone was using the webcam thingy, but for now, she was going to follow the simple, delicious urge to indulge in a fantasy and believe that a dashing, worldly pilot-slash-corporate raider was watching with bated breath as she touched herself for him.
Moving her fingers in slow, deep circles over her clitoris, she closed her eyes and tried to feel his pretend gaze on her as warm pleasure spread through her. With her other hand, she unbuttoned the pajama top, all the way down, and pushed it open, revealing her breasts, both nipples taut when she ran her fingertips over first one, then the other. She imagined her voyeur’s delight and was almost tempted to look into the camera, but then decided—no, let him think she had no idea anyone could possibly be there. Let him think this was just her, sensual and sexy, pleasing herself by the light of the fire.
She opened her eyes, glanced down at her nipples, dark and rosy in the