I Like Being Watched

"Really? Oh, my God, Wynn. That's so great. I knew you were struggling there for a while because of bill stress."

I hadn't expressly told her that, but she'd put the pieces together since I'd always been talking about overdue bills and an issue painting since I'd gotten out of college.

"Yeah, I'm really happy about it," I admitted, even if a part of me was worried there might not be a market for the kind of art I was producing.

I would never know until I put them out there, right?

I mean, soup can paintings could be sold for like eleven million.

If Andy Warhol could make a mint on those, I could make a couple hundred off of my kinky, yet tasteful, canvases, right?

I was going to try, that was for sure.

"What about the cameras?" she asked, wincing at even the mention of them even as my body buzzed at the thought of them.

"The man is just security conscious. Besides, I only have to worry about them if I'm doing something I shouldn't be doing."

"They still freak me out."

"Maybe because you didn't really know Mr. Buchanan."

"And you do? He was rarely around."

"Well, I've been working late here and there, so I've come across him. He even asked me to share some pizza with him on Friday," I told her.

"What? No way. He always eat so healthfully."

"I think he only ordered it because I teased him about what he ate all the time."

"You teased Fitzwilliam Buchanan?" Perry gasped, pressing a hand to her heart. God bless her dramatic soul.

"I did."

"He doesn't seem like someone who would be okay with that sort of thing."

"Maybe you just think that because you've built him up in your mind to be some sort of royal or something," I suggested. "He's just a man."

With needs.

And urges.

And desires.

And it seemed like he might just desire me.

"That's probably true. It's hard not to think of him as, you know, more than the average person with his picture-perfect world."

"Picture perfect. Please," I scoffed. "Have you seen that atrocious art he has all around?" I asked, grimacing.

"Well, perfect aside from the art, of course," she played along, smiling. "I'm glad you're getting on with him. Maybe you were right. I was just being paranoid."

"You play that role beautifully, Per," I assured her, giving her hip a nudge.

"Have you taken a selfie in his amazing master bath yet?" she asked.

"No."

No, I hadn't.

But I was thinking maybe it was time.

—

The plan was simple.

I still wasn't ready to act like I knew he was watching.

I needed to be careful for my job's sake.

But there were all sorts of possible mishaps that could take place with regard to your wardrobe for positions like mine.

Like when I was cleaning it, accidentally turning the rainfall shower head on instead of the handheld attachment, soaking through my white shirt.

The shriek I let out was genuine even if the action itself hadn't been. Because, like I said, the water was frigid when it first came on.

"Shit shit shit," I hissed, jumping out of the shower, a little more drenched than I'd planned, and moved in perfect view of the camera, but was careful to avoid looking at it as I undid my sopping shirt.

I paused at the bottom button, anticipation sizzling across each nerve ending, enjoying the sensation for a moment before pulling the material open, exposing my breasts. My nipples were hard and straining from the cold water as I pulled off the shirt, holding it for a moment so the camera could get a good eyeful, before going to the sink to squeeze out the excess before hanging it up on the shower door.

I turned my back to the camera as I slipped out of my shoes then undid my pants, shimmying out of them, giving the camera a view of my mostly bare ass as I leaned forward to gather my wet pants, laying them across the top of the soaking tub.

Finished, I took a deep breath, turning, then making my way toward the bedroom, taking the show on the road, if you will.

See, there was a flaw in my plan, though.

The plan hinged on one thing.

My boss being at work watching the cameras, or at home after I left, reviewing the footage with a glass of his red wine.

Red wine that costs over a hundred dollars a bottle, I might add.

But, well, Fitzwilliam Buchanan was being a slacker.

Meaning he was home in the middle of the day.

Barreling into his room so fast that I didn't even have a chance to squeal before he was slamming into me.

"Shit," he hissed, hands grabbing my hips to prevent me from falling over.

Which was when he realized one vital piece of information. His hands met bare skin. Because I didn't have any clothes.

I watched as his handsome face went from frustrated to surprised to something darker, something sinfully dark as his gaze slid down to look at my almost nude body.