I Like Being Watched

His hands fell immediately, some part of him holding onto the roles of our professional positions. But he couldn't seem to force his gaze away as he took long, greedy looks at my breasts, my stomach, the barely-there pink material between my thighs.

"Wynn..." he said, voice rough with desire.

When I glanced down, I could see the hard line of him against his slacks.

Remembering myself and my role, my hands slapped over my body, criss-crossing to cover as much of it as possible.

"Mr. Buchanan," I said, and I didn't have to fake the breathlessness to my voice. "I, ah, I wasn't expecting you. I was, um, cleaning your shower. And I had a mishap with the water. My clothes got sopping wet," I went on, watching as he took in what I said, and mixed it with what he was beginning to know about me, then coming to his own conclusions.

That it hadn't been a mishap.

That I'd been doing it on purpose.

"Maybe," he started, then had to clear his throat to speak past the husky edge his voice had taken on. "Maybe you should finish," he suggested.

"Finish what?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"Your task," he clarified. "Maybe you should finish cleaning the shower," he told me, eyes molten.

I felt a similar heat spread through my core as I realized what he was suggesting.

"Right. Yes, of course," I agreed, keeping my tone calm, even, like there was nothing at all unusual about the situation. "I will get to that," I added, taking a step away, giving him just long enough to look over my front as I dropped my arms, before turning and giving him a view of my ass as I walked away.

Did I put just a little bit more oomph in my step as I walked back into the bathroom? Absolutely I did.

As I climbed back into the glass shower stall, bending forward to grab the scrub brush I'd dropped, I noticed my boss moving around his massive bed, sinking down on the side, legs spread wide, elbows rested on his thighs, his hands steepled in front of that generous, delicious-looking mouth of his.

Watching.

God, yes, watching.

It turned out I was wrong.

The thrill wasn't gone because he knew that I knew he was watching. If anything, the knowledge muddled with the proximity of him was making the desire transition from a dull ache to an acute pain between my thighs as I grabbed the spray bottle, and started to clean once again.

But this time, I was all-too-aware of the way my body moved with each motion, the way my breasts swayed as I scrubbed the marble walls, the way my ass jutted out when I bent to retrieve the handheld attachment to rinse the cleaner down the wall.

I repeated the process with my back to him, feeling his heated gaze burning a hole through the glass, and blazing against my bare ass.

I stretched it out as long as I could, but there came a point where the shower couldn't get any cleaner, which had me turning to face him as I reached once more for the detached shower head.

But this time, I didn't spray down the walls.

Oh, no.

I rinsed my hands, then my arms, up over my shoulders, feeling the cool water harden my nipples once again, sending a shiver through my body.

I released the shower head, cutting off the water, and reaching for a bar of soap instead. Taking a step back, I leaned on the back wall of the shower, as I started to suds the bar up in my hands before running them up my arms, over my shoulders, then, finally, my breasts, letting out a small, barely audible whimper at the contact against skin that was aching so badly for touch.

I was sure he couldn't have heard it, but the acoustics of the shower must have been better than I realized because I watched as he dropped his hands from his face, reaching instead toward his belt and pants, working both free with quick, frustrated fingers.

Desire pinged off every nerve ending, thrummed through my chest and between my thighs as I watched him reach into his pants, pulling out his thick, straining cock with one of those big hands of his.

Fitz's greedy gaze slid to me, taking lingering moments over my breasts, my belly, then my thighs that I was rubbing together as though the brief pressure and friction was doing anything to ease the ache between. If anything, it was only making it worse.

It wasn't until his gaze moved up, those brilliant blue eyes that could make a woman's heartbeat skitter—or maybe that was just me—landed on my face that I could see just how desperate he was as well. Dare I even think, just as desperate as I was feeling in that moment.

Too far gone to care.