I Like Being Watched

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.