Voyeur (2 page)

thighs, up into her already sensitized breasts.

That’s when she noticed the tiny little light across the room. A minute green dot on a gadget next to the colossal computer screen—the

homeowner's computer, but Monica had told her to feel free to use it.

She froze in place, her hand going stil as she realized she'd total y forgotten Monica’s giggling warning. "By the way, you might want to avoid

walking through the living room naked." It had come during the phone cal when Monica had been giving her directions from the Eagle-Vail airport, instructions on how to get inside the house, al that.

"Wel , I hadn't planned on it," she'd said, "but why?"

"My cousin has a webcam on his computer there."

"He's going to spy on me?"

Monica had laughed. "No, nothing like that. He just uses it to check in on the house occasional y when he's not there. He once told me that when he knows someone's coming to stay, he sometimes peeks in just to make sure they arrived okay. So no worries—just figured I should mention it."

Now Laura couldn't help wondering if there was any chance she was being watched. Surely not. It was late—after 2 A.M. Monica's cousin, a rich guy

who had something to do with corporate takeovers, was surely asleep by now. As she should be. But she was not. So what if he was awake, too?

Unlikely.

Yet. . . she couldn't ignore the slight feeling that someone
was
watching her, that same feeling you get when someone in a crowded room hones in on you. Only this was no crowded room. It was complete seclusion. Wasn't it?

She swal owed nervously and let her fingers glide lightly over her mound once more. They left little trails of fire. She bit her lip, her skin tingling with the new questions surrounding her. What if Monica's cousin
was
witnessing this? Shouldn't she stop? Shouldn't she snatch up her pj bottoms and flee the room this instant? And stil , to her surprise, the idea that maybe he was taking in her private touches added to her arousal, made her cunt

pulse with an even harder need.

She tried to remember what she knew about him. Shockingly little. There was the corporate takeover thing. "He's like those guys in the movie
Wall
Street,
but nicer," Monica had said. What else had her friend told her? He wasn't married. He was some kind of pilot in his spare time—as evidenced by the vintage flying paraphernalia decorating part of the mountain home. He was in his thirties and handsome, Monica had supplied.

"Your basic rich, confirmed bachelor type." With horror, Laura realized she didn't even know the man's name.

And yet she was rubbing her pussy for him.

If he was even watching. Again, she reminded herself that chances were slim—surely he wasn't.

But in that leaning-toward-surreal moment, she almost
wanted
him to be. Her breasts seemed to bloom with new desire at the confirmation. She

wanted this man she didn't know to watch her play with herself.

In fact, the concept excited her so much that she decided to just pretend he was. Likely that light on the computer burned al day and al night, al the time, not real y indicating if anyone was using the webcam thingy, but for now, she was going to fol ow the simple, delicious urge to indulge in a

fantasy and believe that a dashing, worldly pilot-slash-corporate raider was watching with bated breath as she touched herself for him.

Moving her fingers in slow, deep circles over her clitoris, she closed her eyes and tried to feel his pretend gaze on her as warm pleasure spread

through her. With her other hand, she unbuttoned the pajama top, al the way down, and pushed it open, revealing her breasts, both nipples taut

when she ran her fingertips over first one, then the other. She imagined her voyeur's delight and was almost tempted to look into the camera, but

then decided—no, let him think she had no idea anyone could possibly be there. Let him think this was just her, sensual and sexy, pleasing herself

by the light of the fire.

She opened her eyes, glanced down at her nipples, dark and rosy in the room’s warm glow. She used both hands to pinch them lightly, letting out a

sigh at the sharp sensation between her thighs.

Easing one hand back down, she slid her fingers inside the pink elastic band and down into her wet folds. "Mmm," she purred, thinking,
Watch me.

Watch me touch myself for you.

Her fingertips sank deeper into her drenched flesh, massaging, feeling, stroking. She'd probably never explored her pussy this thoroughly before,

and the thought hit her that it was about time she had!

Part of her was tempted to take off her panties and spread her legs wide so her imaginary voyeur could see how pink and wet she was with his own

eyes—but no. She didn't want to give him
everything.
She wanted to titil ate, tease. She wanted to make him ache for a glimpse of her swol en cunt.

She never stopped rubbing her fingertips over her clit as she used her other hand to ease down one side of her undies just a bit, then the other. She

drew them only to the tops of her thighs, playing with him, torturing him as she continued to massage herself, letting out a light moan as her pleasure grew. "Mmm," she purred and felt a soft smile curve her lips. She was so close to coming, and the idea of being watched continued to escalate her heat, ratcheting it higher and higher.

Are you watching? Is your cock hard for me?
She worked her clit in tight little circles, thrusting gently, gently, against her hand.
Are you waiting for
me to come?

"Oh, mmm . . ." she moaned when the orgasm hit, waves of hot, swal owing pleasure buffeting her whole body as she kept rubbing, rubbing, sighing heatedly with each crushing pulse of the climax. Oh God, it was good.

Had she ever come like this before? Had her pussy ever throbbed with such intensity? No, never—but she rode it out, stil pumping, stil stroking,

until the last little pulsation ebbed.

As sanity returned, she bit her lip and resisted a glance in the webcam's direction. If that even
was
the webcam. She didn't hang out with any high-tech types—she'd never actual y
seen
a webcam before. Either way, though, the fantasy was over. It had brought her truly shocking pleasure, but it was done now.

And she was even more sure than before that no one had watched her masturbate, thank goodness. Stimulating as a fantasy, yes—but it was

nothing Laura would ever want to live out. It just wasn't her style. And with a stranger, no less? Nope. Monica would probably
love
living it out, but not her.

Now she only had to hope that perhaps her orgasm had given her the needed release so she could concentrate on her book tomorrow and get

Riley's story moving.

Plucking up her pj bottoms, she stepped into them and tied the drawstring waist, then buttoned her pajama top. Flipping the switches that kil ed the

fire and turned the room dark but for the reflection of the moon on the snow shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she final y al owed herself to take another peek toward the supposed webcam.

Was there anyone there? She tilted her head, al owing herself to sincerely wonder once more, now that she was hidden in shadow.

No. Impossible. Or at least highly unlikely.

Good night, my imaginary voyeur.

When Laura awoke the next morning, she stil didn't find herself bubbling with a plot for Riley and Aunt Mimsey.
Damn it.

But that was okay, she assured herself. After a cup of coffee and a bagel eaten while peering out on the snow-encrusted mountains in the distance,

she put on a pair of jogging pants and a comfy long-sleeved T-shirt and situated herself before the computer, stil convinced last night's release

would surely be fol owed by a burst of creativity. On some level, she'd decided to believe Monica’s theory—since maybe believing would make it

so, helping her put some words on the computer screen today.

As she pul ed up the file in which she was utterly determined to start writing a novel within the next few minutes, she glanced absently out the

window, the view too beautiful to be ignored for long. But then her gaze stuck on the presumed webcam. A sense of relief washed over her when

she saw that, yes, the little green light remained lit, meaning it was
always
lit and that no one had real y been watching her last night.

"Al right now, Riley, what mystery can you solve this time around?" she said to the computer. She'd completed seven Riley Wainscott Mysteries thus far, the last two making the
USA Today
best-sel er list, and she'd come to rely on her "relationship" with Riley, the innate understanding she had of her character, to guide her when writing. She knew Riley wouldn't fail her now.

Slowly, the first seed of an idea began to grow in her mind. And whereas her plots were usual y wel thought-out before she ever committed a word

to the page, she knew that this time she needed to simply take this kernel and run with it. She began to type.

Aunt Mimsey came bursting through the front door of her cottage quicker than Riley would have believed the old woman could move. "Riley,

come quick!"

"What's wrong, Aunt Mimsey? Did Mrs. Dorchester's cat dig up your flower bed again?"

"No, it's a man."

Riley raised her eyebrows in doubt. "A man dug up your flower bed?"

Aunt Mimsey shook her head, clearly in distress. "No, sil y girl. There's a man outside. I saw him lurking around the Dorchesters'

guesthouse."

Just then, the computer let out a beep and a window appeared on the screen atop Aunt Mimsey's tirade. An Instant Message box.

FLYBOY1: Good morning.

Laura couldn't have been more stunned. Flyboy. Must be Monica's pilot/corporate raider cousin.

Wel , maybe he was being polite enough to check on her arrival like this rather than with the webcam. Even so, given her exploits last night, it was

unsettling.

The reply box that automatical y opened was labeled FLYBOY2. She figured she had no
choice
but to answer. After al , the guy was letting her use his vacation home for free.

FLYB0Y2: Hello.

FLYBOY1: I trust you arrived okay. How do you like the house?

FLYB0Y2: The house is fabulous. A perfect retreat. Thank you for letting me use it.

FLYB0Y1: Glad to have you there. Monica told me you were having some trouble writing in your usual environment. Are your creative juices

flowing yet?

FLYB0Y2: Starting to, I think.

FLYB0Y1: Good. Are any other juices flowing?

Laura’s stomach pinched tightly. She hesitated, trying to figure out how to respond.
FLYB0Y2: Um, not sure what you mean.

FLYB0Y1: Come on, Laura, you can be honest. Your secret's safe with me .

Her pussy clenched, along with the rest of her body. She simply sat there, frozen, unable to think clearly ... or reply.

FLYB0Y1: I saw you last night, Laura. I saw you make yourself come.

Her breasts ached as her chest tightened. Her heart threatened to pound right through her rib cage. Again, she couldn't answer. She couldn't

fathom that he'd real y seen her, that she'd real y been performing, touching herself, for a real, live voyeur!

Yet another message appeared.

FLYB0Y1: Forgive me. I didn't do it on purpose. Was just up late working and it occurred to me I hadn't checked on your arrival, so I flipped on

the cam, and there you were. I shouldn't have watched, but what can I say? I'm a red-blooded American male. And you're an incredibly hot little

houseguest, honey.

Laura stared at his message in awe. Sensible responses to what had just happened raced through her mind. She should shut down the computer

right now. More than that, she should pack up and leave, head right back to Seattle. Every logical instinct told her to run, to take whatever measures necessary—no matter how extreme—to get herself out of this situation that was so very
un-her.

Yet her pussy pulsed under her jogging pants.

And Monica’s description played back through her head. Handsome. Thirty-something.

How
handsome? she should have asked Monica.

She bit her lip, felt her heartbeat speed up, and dropped her gaze to her fingers because she was nervous and wanted to make sure she hit the

right letters. She could barely believe the reply she'd typed, even as she hit Send.
FLYB0Y2: Did I make you hard?

FLYBOY1: As a rock.

Mmm, the words on the screen turned her breasts heavy, achy. Could she actual y do this? Have cybersex? Without even any wine to fuel her?

She wasn't sure what had gotten into her, but to her surprise, maybe she could.
FLYB0Y2: Did you suffer all night?

FLYBOY1: No, honey, afraid not. I took matters into my own hands, just like you .

The image that entered her mind turned her crotch even warmer than it already was.
FLYB0Y2 : Right at the computer? Or later, in bed?

FLYB0Y1: Right at the computer. I came just a few seconds after you. Watching the pleasure wash over your face while you worked your hot

little pussy pushed me over the edge.

Despite herself, despite what a dangerous game this might be, she yearned for more of that image—details. She suddenly longed to know exactly

what she'd made happen to this man, this stranger.
FLYB0Y2: Did you come on the screen? The keyboard?

FLYB0Y1: No—caught it in a tissue. Computers are expensive. ;)

If his computer at home was as extravagant as the one she worked on right now, he was right. She typed the first thought in her head without

weighing it.
FLYB0Y2: I would like to have seen.

FLYBOY1: Sorry, honey, the webcam only works one way.