He Watches Me: The Seen Trilogy: Part One (2 page)

Blaine’s face darkens. “I said I wouldn’t. Don’t ever doubt my word, Anna.” Anger radiates from him, the towel rippling in his hands.

“I won’t.” I scramble out of the pool, my actions more rushed than graceful. “I don’t.” I cover my breasts with one arm and my private hair with the other. Too much of my naked skin remains exposed.

Blaine doesn’t move, waiting in place, forcing me to come to him. I wiggle toward him, struggling to keep my key body parts shielded, my embarrassment increasing with each step. As I near, he folds the towel in two, removing the barrier between us.

“Lower your hands,” this man, this stranger I’ve seen once before tonight, rumbles, his voice drawing moisture from my pussy, reviving a lust I thought I had sated. “Show me.”

I breathe in, inhaling the tang of cigar mixed with sandalwood and musk, his cologne light yet unmistakably masculine, and I drop my hands, resting them on my pale thighs, allowing him to look his fill.

Blaine’s green eyes glint with approval and he peruses me, slowly, leisurely. He sweeps his gaze over my shoulders, breasts, stomach, mons, legs, and I tremble as though he’s touching me with his fingers, my body humming with awareness, want, need.

Blaine pauses at my bare water-wrinkled toes, my toenails short and unpolished, my skin appalling white in a city of tanned bodies. His lips twitch and he reverses his study, acting as though he has all the time in the world to look at me, seeing everything.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice succulently deep, and, in this moment, I feel beautiful. I feel seen, accepted, desired.

He holds out the towel. I grasp it, wrapping the rough cotton around my form, tucking the ends in, holding the towel in place.

“Thank you.” I don’t know whether I’m thanking him for giving me the towel, for the compliment, or for seeing me. I blindly slide my toes into the flip-flops, not taking my gaze off his face.

Blaine slips his right hand between his black jacket and his stark white shirt and he withdraws a golden key. It is a work of art, old fashioned, intricately crafted, yet stylish, and it hangs from a black ribbon with a matching gold clasp. “This is the key to the gate.”

“I won’t use it,” I insist. “I can’t accept it.”

“You will and you are.” His decisive tone doesn’t allow for any argument. “Turn around.”

I obey, holding up my wet hair. He reaches around me, his body heat engulfing me, his scent filing my nostrils, and he fastens the clasp without touching me, much to my disappointment. The key hangs low, between my breasts, the gold cool, the weight feeling right, as though it is meant to belong to me.

I turn and meet Blaine’s gaze. His features have softened, his shoulders lowered. “Perfect.” He leans forward.

I hold my breath, certain he will kiss me, wanting his hard grim mouth on mine.

“You’ll use the gate tomorrow.” Blaine pulls away and I exhale.

“I won’t use the gate.” I cling to my delusions, knowing this shouldn’t happen again. He’s a worldly sophisticated businessman, adept at playing games I don’t even know the rules to.

“You will.” He walks with me to the gate, matching my shorter strides. We don’t touch but I feel the connection between us and I wonder if only I feel it.

Thyme sweetens the air, blending with the scents of cologne, cigar, and chlorine. Lavender purple verbena dots the primarily green ground cover. Insects buzz. Water ripples. We don’t talk, the silence strangely soothing.

I use my new key to unlock the gate. Although my fingers tremble, Blaine doesn’t help, doesn’t touch me, waiting for me to open the gate. The hinges creak as though the gate hasn’t been used in a long time.

It shouldn’t be used again. I step forward, reluctantly leaving Blaine’s side. This should be good-bye. If I’m wise, I’ll stay on my side of the fence.

“Anna.”

“Mr. Blaine.” I look up, marveling at how green his eyes are, how hard his face is. Whatever happened to him to make him so unrelenting?

“My business card.” Gabriel Blaine holds out a rectangle of matte black paper, the script gleaming gold. “Call if you need me, anytime for anything.”

I clasp the business card and our fingers brush. His skin is rough and warm, not the texture one would expect from a high level executive, and awareness rolls over my body, tightening my nipples, wetting my pussy and weakening my knees. “I won’t call.” My voice is breezy, my chest tight.

“You will.” Blaine backs away and a shadow falls across his face, accentuating his sharp angles and jutted jaw. “I’ll be watching you.” He laughs softly and then he’s gone, sucked into the darkness, a creature of the night.

Chapter Two

A
PA
IR OF
hard green eyes dominates my dreams. The images are erotic and frustrating, because even in my dreams he doesn’t touch me, doesn’t pleasure me. But he watches. He always watches.

I wake late and I throw on a mismatched panty and bra set, the formerly white cotton grayed by the wash. I cover this fashion monstrosity with loose-fitting black dress pants and a baggy white blouse. I wear the key, for some reason, under my blouse, the gold metal dangling between my breasts, the black ribbon brushing against my neck. I grab my black faux leather tote, slip on my matching flat-heeled shoes, and head out the front door.

I say hello to the city bus driver as I pay my fare. He doesn’t respond, acting as though he hasn’t seen me. I sit beside an elderly lady who spends the entire trip in her own world, talking too loudly on the phone to a gynecologist, sharing information about her vagina I wish she wouldn’t. All around me, people are talking on their phones or texting, connecting to people, to the world.

I can’t afford a phone so I play with the business card in my pocket, rotating the expensive card stock, drifting my fingertips over the embossed lettering. Does Blaine think of me—his clothing-impaired trespasser? Does anyone think of me?

I’m thinking of Blaine as I walk into the headquarters for Feed Your Hungry. The bungalow is the former residence of a long deceased benefactor and has been converted into office space, the front extended to eat up all but a thin strip of green lawn.

I pick up my call list from the receptionist, the blonde texting furiously on a hot pink phone, and I walk past the client meeting rooms. In this more modern section of the building, the carpet is impeccable although plain, the beige walls freshly painted, the pine-stained furniture new yet not flashy, the décor carefully chosen to make donors comfortable while communicating that their money was carefully spent.

I swing through the doors of doom into the original portion of the former home. A blast of hot air hits my skin, the temperature spiking dramatically, the air conditioner broken. The gray paint on the walls is chipped and the drywall cracked. The industrial carpet is frayed. Long metal folding tables fill the area we call the pit. On these tables are flesh-colored telephones other offices have long abandoned. These phones rarely ring, my minimum-wage-earning coworkers and I spending our days trying to set up appointments with socialites, dialing for dollars.

Around the perimeter of the windowless room are the offices. These offices are earned by securing donations. I glance at the office Michael Cooke has occupied since arriving at the charity. The door is closed, the lights are off, and his seat is empty.

I slide into my usual spot in the back row of the pit. The chair creaks, no cushion remaining in the seat. I set my tote down at my feet. The seat beside me is empty, which surprises me. Soft-spoken Beth is normally punctual, unlike myself.

I glance at Goth girl, situated one seat over, her black army boots firmly planted on the gray carpet. She is dressed in all black, her leather corset cinched tight and her short tulle skirt puffing around her ripped mesh leggings. I don’t often talk to the green-Mohawk-wearing arts graduate because her moods swing between maniacally cheerful and dangerously hostile. “Beth is late.”

“The bunny whisperer got the axe this morning.” Goth girl swipes her tattooed index finger across her silver-stud-collared throat. “You had better land a meet and greet today, ’Shroom.” She snarls that hateful nickname she’s given me, her teeth a glaring white against her black lipstick. “Boss man is out for blood today.” Light reflects off the piercing in her bottom lip.

Great. I peruse my neatly typed list of potential donors and their giving history. The last time any of them has given money to Feed Your Hungry was before I was born.

I pick up the receiver, headsets only given to employees after landing their first meet and greet, and I start to dial. No one is home. No one is home. Voice mail. Doesn’t speak English. No one is home. Don’t you people have anything better to do?

Actually, I don’t, ma’am. This is my job. I think the sarcasm, issue the standard apology, and add a new profanity to my extensive list.

Boss man calls another employee into the office. She’s told to bring her things and she never returns. I dial faster, hoping if I up my calls, I’ll get lucky.

Goth girl lands a meet and greet. She crows with pride. We all cheer. She smirks at me. I smile back, inwardly cursing, wondering how she can do this job and I can’t. I dial and dial and dial, my fingertips numbing, my brain falling asleep.

When I first started this job, I thought we’d actually be feeding the hungry. The only hungry I’ve met are my donation-hungry coworkers.

The blond, big-breasted socialite in the front row finally makes her first call. She scrambles the script, giggles, and lands a meet and greet, her donor known for contributing every year.

Boss man hovers on the threshold, scanning the pit, his glasses partially fogged up, perspiration matting his thinning hair. He’s looking for me. I know it. I shift in the uncomfortable seat, tempted to duck under the table and hide from him, from fate.

His gaze meets mine and his brown eyes fill with pity. “Anna Sampson, can I see you in my office?” Boss man waves his hand as though I don’t know where his office is. I suspect he’s wearing a short sleeve shirt under his poorly fitting navy blazer, as he has no shirt cuffs. “Bring your things.”

Goth girl sniggers and I want to slug her. When my father slugged a fellow inmate in prison, he ended up dead. As my father had been bigger and stronger than I am and the inmate was less scary than Goth girl, I decide to keep my fists to myself.

I grab my tote, holding it before me as though it is a shield, and I follow Boss man down the hallway. This is it. I’m getting fired. He holds the door open for me.

His office is tiny and smells like musty old books. Papers are piled on the desk. The blue screen of death is displayed on a computer I’ve only seen in low budget movies and in this place.

Boss man settles into the faded vinyl chair across from me. “Please sit down, Anna.” He doesn’t meet my gaze.

As I sit down, the business card in my pocket falls to the dusty carpet. Boss man bends and retrieves it for me. He scans the card and his eyes widen. “Gabriel Blaine.” Boss man pushes his glasses up his nose. “You know Gabriel Blaine?” He gazes at me with new respect.

It is a heady feeling but it isn’t deserved. “Sort of.” I squirm in my seat and the key dangling between my breasts slides over my skin. “I talked to him last night. He’s my neighbor.”

“Your neighbor,” Boss man repeats. “You live beside a billionaire.”

I see the wheels turning in Boss man’s brain. I should explain I’m house-sitting and not legitimately living in such a ritzy neighborhood, but then he’ll fire me and I really don’t want to get fired. I stay silent, tucking my ice-cold hands under my ass.

“This changes everything.” Boss man places the business card on the desk and my fingers twitch, the urge to snatch it off the chipped veneer tremendous. “Have you . . . ummm . . . talked to Mr. Blaine about the work you’ve been doing with Feed Your Hungry?”

“No.” The billionaire isn’t interested in my job. He wants to watch me masturbate. My nipples grow taut and I’m grateful for my baggy blouse.

“You should.” Boss man hands me the business card and I tuck it hastily back into my pants pocket. “I was told to terminate you today but I can convince management to give you another couple of weeks if you promise to talk to Mr. Blaine.”

I nibble on my bottom lip. I hadn’t planned on seeing Blaine again. I shouldn’t see him. But he’s already seen all of me, he’s promised not to touch me, and talking to him would save my job.

“Anna?” Boss man is waiting for an answer.

“I can’t promise a donation.” He’s been a good boss, a fair boss, and I’m compelled to be honest with him. “But I’ll talk to Mr. Blaine.”

“That’s all I ask.” Boss man beams, appearing as relieved as I feel. “You can return to your calls.”

As I exit Boss man’s office, I collide with a solid wall of khaki-covered muscle. “Careful there, kiddo.” Michael Cooke steadies me with his big hands, his palms flattening against my back and his thick fingers cradling my spine, the warmth of his skin felt through my clothes.

I tilt my head back, looking up, up, up, into the most handsome face I’ve ever seen. Shaggy sun-kissed blond hair frames golden skin, perfect features, and twinkling blue eyes. Michael is a sexual force, and my poor, neglected body isn’t immune to his male magnetism. All of me hums to life, hungry, starved for touch.

“Survived the chopping block, huh?” Michael grins, displaying straight white teeth and an enchanting dimple in his left cheek. An off-white hemp shirt hangs on his broad shoulders. Birkenstocks are on his massive well-maintained feet.

His arms remain around me, his body throwing off massive levels of heat. Michael Cooke, son of a famous actress and a Hollywood producer, is holding me, Anna Sampson, daughter of a deceased thief and a runaway housewife. My world spins merrily around me.

“Don’t talk much, do you?” Michael releases me and I sway, unsteady on my feet. “I like that.” He smacks me on the shoulder, his hand heavy, and I stifle a wince, aching from the impact. “Better get to work.” He leaves me gaping after him as he swaggers down the hallway. His ass cheeks clench and unclench under his snug-fitting khakis.

He held me. He talked to me. I slip my hand into my pants pocket and touch Blaine’s business card, ensuring I still had it. I have to keep this job. It is my only connection to Michael.

That means I have no choice. I have to see Blaine tonight. The humming in my body intensifies.

I’ll talk to him as I promised Boss man. That’s it. I won’t take off my clothes. I won’t ask him to touch me.

I return to my seat, unable to stifle my smile as Goth girl’s mouth drops open and everyone in the pit turns in their chairs to stare at me. It is a good type of staring, with no hint of ridicule. I sit a little straighter and glance at Michael’s office.

He’s leaning back in his chair, his feet resting on his desk, talking into his headset. He’s handsome and confident and I’m not the only woman in the pit gazing at him. I might have been the only woman in the pit he has held though.

I raise my chin and I dial.

B
Y THE TIME
the clock buzzes midnight, I’m a nervous wreck, yearning for and dreading the meeting with Blaine. My hair is its usual frizzy mess and I question yet again my clothing choice. Will he like it? Why do I care?

I touch the brand new bra and panty set spread out on my narrow twin-sized bed. The bra is white satin and well-padded. The saleswoman told me that’s what men want, that my special someone will love the added curves, my new improved silhouette.

When I try the set on again at home, I’m not as certain. I feel uncomfortable, fake, as though I was trying too hard. I need my confidence for this discussion and Blaine won’t see my underwear anyway.

Leaving the bra and panties on the bed, I don a yellow cotton T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts. I leave the ribbon with the key around my neck and exit my plainly furnished bedroom, the space converted from a storage closet.

I flick the hallway light off in an effort to lower the Leigh’s electricity bill. Then I remember I had turned the light on a mere ten minutes ago, my attempt to make the house looked lived in, and I flick the switch back. “Pull yourself together, Anna.” I shake my shoulders, slip on my flip-flops and wander outside.

The sky is overcast, clouds covering the moon and stars, darkening the lawn. I stub my toe on one of the Leighs’ pieces of outdoor art, a compilation of brightly colored glass rectangles and circles.

Cursing profanities under my breath, I limp to the gate and peer between the bars. The pool is lit and empty. No cigars glow in the dark. The flow of the waterfall and the hum of insects break the silence.

He’s not here. My shoulders slump with disappointment, my worry and anticipation dissipating into nothing.

I’ll swim, show him I’m not a coward. I unlock the gate and traipse across the lawn, the wildness of the ground cover welcoming me, a fellow savage. A brown moth flutters in front of me, not as vividly colored as the daytime butterflies yet beautiful in her own way, graceful and real.

It isn’t until I reach the lounge chairs that I notice my hands are empty. “My towel.” I look back over my shoulder, debating whether or not I should return for it.

Before she left for Paris, Suzanne Leigh told me numerous times not to get their home’s concrete floors wet. This is one of the reasons I don’t wear a swimsuit during my midnight dips. That and I don’t have a swimsuit to wear.

“I have a robe.”

I jump, the softly spoken words frightening me. “Do you always sit alone in the dark?” I snap, tense and irritable, my nerves frayed.

“Am I alone?” A light clicks on, illuminating Blaine’s hard face, his brilliant green eyes. He lounges on a chair, wearing his black suit, white shirt, this time with a deep rose, almost black, tie. In his right hand he cradles a glass of cognac.

Isn’t he alone? I peer into the night, seeing nothing, but as I hadn’t seen him, this is not reassuring.

“I’m the only one you should be concerned about.” Blaine smiles, flashing white slightly uneven teeth, his canines overly pronounced. “Take off your clothes for me, Anna,” he purrs, his sinfully deep voice awakening my secret desires.

My fingers twitch, a part of my soul, the primal needy part, wishing to obey his every command. I force myself to remain still. “We should talk.”

“We’ll talk later.” Blaine swirls the cognac, the amber liquid sloshing around the glass. “You’re too tightly wound up to talk now.” He sets the glass down on the table beside him, the crystal ringing against wood.

He’s right. I am too tightly wound up. I can’t concentrate, my thoughts scattered. If I pleasure myself first, coming hard, I’ll relax, be able to initiate the awkward conversation I have planned.