I Like Being Watched

"I think he's probably out jerking off in his truck," I corrected.

"Yeah?" she asked, eyes heated again because she got off on having that kind of power.

"Yep," I agreed. There was no way I could have walked in on some beautiful woman getting throat-fucked without ending up with a hard-on either.

"Hmm," she said.

"Woman, I need some recovery time," I told her, recognizing that light in her eye.

"What? About an hour or two, you think?" she asked, eyes dancing. "I could get some painting done," she declared. "And by then, the guys should be here to put down the mulch," she told me, beaming at the idea.

I needed to get some work done.

And I did.

For about an hour and a half while Wynn painted.

But then she was barreling into my study, grabbing my hand, and dragging me upstairs and into our bedroom, pushing me onto the bed, and doing a striptease that turned into a lap dance that, despite my certainty that I needed more time, made my cock rock fucking hard in a moment.

"Come on," she demanded, pulling me forward with her, turning her ass toward me. "Fuck me against the window," she added, wiggling her ass against me until my cock pressed against her wet cleft.

My gaze moved over her shoulder to see the guys moving around, gathering their wheelbarrows and shovels and landscaping tarp. Busy. They were all busy with their task.

It didn't matter to us if they actually saw, but that there was a chance for it.

My balls felt ready to burst at the idea as my cock surged inside her.

"He's looking," Wynn groaned out as I started to fuck her harder, her whole body jolting each time I thrust inside her.

"Let him," I growled. The whole world could watch me fuck her if they wanted. She was mine. No one else was going to touch her. They could all go green with envy for all I cared.

"I'm..." Wynn choked out even as her pussy started to clench my cock, dragging me through my orgasm too.

I yanked her backward with me, collapsing back onto the bed with her sprawled over me, her back to my chest.

"This is never going to get old," she declared after a long moment.

"No, it's not," I agreed. "But you need to go get to work on your pieces for the exhibit," I reminded her.

"I'm suddenly feeling very inspired," she told me.

"We talked about this. No cock canvases," I reminded her, walking my fingers across her stomach.

"Those are for our private gallery only," she confirmed, rolling onto her stomach, and smiling down at me. "How about while I work, you order in something greasy and fatty?" she suggested. "Then when I finish, we can eat and watch Perry's soap."

"I'll never forgive you for getting me hooked on that show," I griped, like I'd been griping for weeks, since Perry finally made an appearance.

"Oh, you love every second of it, and you know it."

"I still feel like she has a freaky amount of chemistry with those two male leads of hers. What?" I asked when a mischievous smile toyed at her lips.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Best friend stuff," I assumed.

"Exactly. You will have to compliment her the next time you talk to her. I still have to call her about the exhibit. Speaking of, did I thank you for setting that up yet?"

"Not in the last... thirty minutes."

"Well, thank you," she said, sealing her lips to mine.

"You're welcome," I said as she slid off of me and walked bare-ass naked out of the bedroom, across the hallway over the foyer, and into her studio she'd set up in one of the spare rooms.

When she emerged a few hours later with paint staining various parts of her bare skin, curling up with me on the couch eating Chinese and watching an over-the-top soap opera, I was overcome with the rightness of it all.

I was one lucky fucking man.

Epilogue

Wynn

I was the luckiest woman in the world.

And I wasn't even being dramatic.

That was the best part.

I wasn't the girl I used to be, the one who feasted on the scraps men offered me and then boasted about the meal he'd given to me to friends and family.

No.

Fitz laid out a spread for me that would feed me for months, for decades, for the rest of my life.

For a man who was accustomed to being on his own, with really only himself—and Blake's mishaps—to worry about, he'd been surprisingly adept at starting and growing a relationship.

The man had somehow managed to get me an exhibit for a Christmas present, for goodness sakes.

Which was where we were.

I'd dreamed of my first exhibit a million times over the years. But none of those daydreams came anything close to the reality.

Fitz had gotten me in at an intimate gallery with their trademarked floor-to-ceiling front windows and white walls so foot traffic would see the art, and possibly decide to head inside to buy something.