I Like Being Watched

The rest of the house was much like the main lower floor—an understated kind of classy, no fuss, no frills, everything in neutral grays or whites.

Except, it seemed, the master bedroom.

Fitzwilliam Buchanan was certainly a fan of the color black.

God, I was turning into Perry, using the man's whole name every time I thought of him.

The master bedroom was as massive as you might imagine with the square footage of the estate. But it was somehow dominated by a massive bed that seemed like it had to be custom made, larger than any king-sized I had ever seen, draped in black sheets, a black comforter, and black throw pillows.

The wall behind the bed was also painted a matte black, including all the built-in bookshelves that could be found there.

I mean this man was rich and anal enough about these sorts of things that even the books on the shelves had dust jackets printed up with matte black covers and shiny black titles and author names on the spine.

The drapes over the French doors that led onto the back balcony were drawn and, you guessed it, black.

The sheer amount of the one dark color should have made the space oppressive and gloomy. But even I—someone who loved color—found the space unexpectedly comforting and sleek.

I moved through the master bedroom, making my way into the bath, finding it in stark contrast to the bedroom, everything bright white much like the kitchen with its marble countertops and tile in the shower as well as the white soaking tub and the white walls.

"Strange," I decided, wondering what kind of man went from a dark bedroom to an almost painfully bright bathroom as I went into the drawers and cabinets, jotting down notes on brands of products, and how many were left of each thing.

It wasn't until I was making my way back into the bedroom that I saw it.

The first one I had noticed.

A camera.

I don't think anyone would have noticed it if they didn't know it was there. But there it was. A shiny circular spot in the spine of a book.

Adrenaline sizzled across my nerve endings as I forced my gaze away from it, not wanting it to be clear that I knew it was there, that it was watching me. That defeated the whole purpose.

Instead, I placed the notepad down on the nightstand as my gaze went to the bed, my hands reaching for pillows, fluffing them with perhaps more gusto than the task required, hard enough that my boobs burst open my second button by the time I got to the third pillow.

I finished the fluffing, then moved to the foot of the bed, grabbing the corners of the comforter while bending forward, feeling the cool air in the room brush over my partially exposed breasts as I shimmied the comforter straighter on the bed. Let's just say there was quite a bit of jiggle involved in this task. Necessary? Probably not. But I sure made it seem like a normal thing to do as my body heated, my sex clenching at the idea of Mr. Buchanan sitting down in his study after work, going over his security footage as I suspected any careful man would do the first day a new employee started in his home, and coming up on the footage of my tits spilling out of my bra and shirt, bouncing around as I made the bed he would later go to sleep in.

It was tame.

The whole thing was vanilla, all things said.

But it was just the right amount of excitement for me as I walked back to my notebook, picked it up, and walked innocently out of the room.

I went ahead and did another couple hours of tasks with the extra button open. Wiping surfaces, sweeping, restocking things from the massive storage closet between the kitchen and the garage.

It was only when I heard some of the men showing up to take care of the grounds that I ducked into the powder room, covered myself up, and made my way outside to greet them, introduce myself, and make sure everything was getting done.

It should have felt strange, running a house that didn't belong to me. Or running a house at all when all I'd ever needed to do was take care of my little apartment. And even that I, admittedly, did not do spectacularly. I mean I had once needed to use a coffee filter as TP when I had let myself run out.

But, suddenly, at this new job, I was finding myself on top of my game. I had lists upon lists upon lists. I actually brought my laptop to work on the third day to work on a spreadsheet that I pinned inside the door of the storage closet, making everything I needed to know right there when I needed to find it quickly.