Read He Watches Me: The Seen Trilogy: Part One Online
Authors: Cynthia Sax
I
WAKE AS
the sun’s rays break the horizon, tinting the sky a delicate yellow and pink. Birds sing and sprinklers whiz back and forth, back and forth. A large brown and white snail crawls up the table’s base, leaving a glistening trail of slime behind him.
The windows in Blaine’s mansion remain dark. “Blaine?” I call, ever hopeful. No one answers. I sigh. He isn’t home.
Disappointed, I return to the Leighs’ bungalow, head to my bedroom and place the note Blaine left for me in the carry-on-sized suitcase containing all of the possessions I own. Executives often travel with similar luggage, rolling the black bags through airport terminals, looking straight ahead, intent on reaching their destinations, returning home.
I dress in a black ribbed tank top and faded cutoff jean shorts, make a piece of dry toast, and gaze out the kitchen window as I eat my simple breakfast.
There’s no activity next door.
Normally, on Saturdays, I’ll pack a lunch and spend the day exploring L.A. I’ve hiked in parks, watched the wealthy shop on Rodeo Drive, and attended free street festivals.
Today I stay close to the house. I do my laundry, hanging my wet clothes on the deck railing to dry. I carefully dust the glass cones and other objects d’art Mrs. Leigh collects. I wipe down the screen of the humongous TV that I’m not allowed to turn on. Dr. Leigh, having spent a month and thousands of dollars calibrating it properly, locked the remote control in a safe before he left.
I wait for Blaine.
Tires crunch on the driveway and my heart leaps. I rush to the front foyer, my bare feet smacking against the concrete floor, and I swing the front door open.
It isn’t Blaine.
A tall, thin man clad in a brown short-sleeve shirt and matching shorts pulls his tanned index finger away from the stainless steel doorbell. “Are you?” He glances down at the label on the small brown box he’s holding. “Miss Anna Sampson?”
Someone sent me a package? I wiggle my bare toes. “Yes.”
“Sign here, please.” As he hands me a handheld device and a plastic stylus, he brushes his fingers against my hand. “You have the softest, most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen, Miss Sampson.”
I blink. The Leighs have sent many packages home from Europe, a collection stored in a spare bedroom, but none of the deliverymen have ever flirted with me before today. “I’ve been scrubbing the floors with them.”
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.” He winks, bracing his long thin body against door frame. The mysterious box rests on one of his hips.
“Ummm . . .” What should I say to this? Thank you? I hastily scribble my signature on the small black screen and give the equipment back to him, eager to complete this increasingly uncomfortable transaction.
“This is one of my regular routes.” As the deliveryman clips his handheld device onto his belt, he yanks on his shorts, pulling the brown fabric over a noticeably large bulge. “If you ever need someone to talk to.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I eye the box, my curiosity killing me. Who would send me a package?
“Here you go.” The deliveryman holds the box out to me and I grab the sides.
He doesn’t release the box. I pull. He pulls back, a wide grin on his face.
“Give. Me. The. Box.” I twist it out of his hands. “Thank you.” I shake the package. It’s intriguingly light and the return address is New York.
Blaine was in New York. I tremble with excitement.
“Is it a gift?” The deliveryman remains on the Leighs’ front step, his brown truck idling in the driveway.
“Yes.” I nod. “From my very jealous lover.” I dart a glance over my shoulder and I lean forward. “He watches me.”
“Oh.” The deliveryman widens his eyes and I smother my grin. “Have a good day, miss.” He casts a furtive glance at the door and practically runs to his truck.
I laugh softly as I hurry to my bedroom. I rip the tape off the box and open the cardboard folds. The package
is
from Blaine. His distinctive handwriting flows across a piece of white paper.
If you must wear something, nymph, wear something beautiful.
Blaine
“Very poetic,” I murmur. I raise the paper and breathe in. It smells of his cologne. I carefully transfer the note to the bed, not wishing to lose any of its scent.
I search through the thin white tissue paper and close my fingers around sinfully soft fabric. Is it a swimsuit? No, I extract a dainty white cotton bra. The cups resemble clamshells. The edges are scalloped and the ripples are fine, flat embroidery. The embroidery extends up the ribbon straps and around the band. Waves ripple. Water falls.
It is exquisite, a work of art. I blink back tears. And there’s more. Blaine has given me seven equally stunning panties, one for every day of the week. Each pure white panty is unique, one of a kind, the sea being the common theme. They are all delectably soft.
I spend the rest of the day, all of the evening, and much of the night debating which panty to wear. I also stake out Blaine’s mansion. There’s no sign of life. No cars enter his stone-set driveway. No doors open. As darkness falls, the windows remain unlit.
Blaine will return home. He said he would.
I choose the panty most closely matching the bra. The cotton clamshell covers my mons as though the delicate garment was made for me. White satin ribbons caress my hips and disappear between my ass cheeks.
The bra fits as perfectly, hugging my slender curves. I skim my fingertips along the cups, the fabric barely covering my nipples, and I shiver, aroused and excited. I’m beautiful, feminine, desirable.
Blaine’s key is my only jewelry, the black ribbon accentuating the whiteness of the bra, the gold adding shine. I wrap the white robe around my body, slip my feet into the flip-flops and venture into the night.
I follow the siren call of the waterfall, unlocking the gate quickly, eager to see Blaine. The ground cover releases sweet scents as I walk toward the pool of clear blue water. Insects buzz around the lights.
“Blaine.” I stand before his empty chair and peer into the darkness. “Are you watching me?” I see nothing. No cigars glow. I breathe in. His cologne doesn’t fill my nostrils.
“I must be early.” I gaze up at the moon, struggling to control my disappointment. “Because he’ll be here. I trust him.” I don’t trust much in this crazy world but I do trust Blaine. If he says he’ll be home tonight, he’ll be home tonight.
Tires crunch on stone. A door opens and slams shuts. I turn toward the noise, hope lifting my heart. Hinges creak. A cologne I smell in my dreams wafts on the night breeze.
“Blaine.”
“You’re overdressed, nymph.” Blaine is wearing his usual black suit and white shirt but both are uncharacteristically wrinkled. His charcoal gray tie has been loosened. There are dark circles under his brilliant green eyes and his black hair is mussed.
He looks like hell and I want him now more than ever.
“Blaine!” I fly toward him. He stands partially in the shadows, his gaze fixed on my face. I reach up and capture his lean face between my palms. His cheek tics against the fingertips of my right hand.
I pull his face lower and press my lips against his. He doesn’t move. I open my mouth. Blaine doesn’t respond. Undeterred, I dart my tongue between his grim lips. His teeth are clenched together.
He denies me entrance to his mouth. He doesn’t trust me with his body.
Blaine doesn’t want more.
A band of pain wraps around my heart and squeezes, crushing my hopes, my dreams, my future. “Oh.” I stagger backward, hurting as I’ve never hurt before.
“Anna.” Blaine gazes at me with a burning intensity, his eyes hard, so very hard, his fingers balled into tight fists, his knuckles white. “I—”
“You watch me. I know.” I yank on the key, breaking the clasp. The ribbon burns my neck. “That’s—”
“No!” Blaine rushes forward, hooks his arms around my waist and slams our bodies together, flattening my breasts against his chest, the impact pushing the air from my lungs.
I gasp, frightened and aroused, my nipples tightening and my pussy moistening. Blaine covers my parted lips and surges into my mouth, driving my head back. I drop the key, the gold clinking on the stone, and I grip his suit-covered shoulder as he ravishes me with his tongue, branding, claiming, owning. He tastes of black coffee, grilled beef, and man.
He slides his palms down my back and cups my ass, pulling me into him, pushing my mons against the hard ridge in his dress pants, the proof of his desire undeniable. I lift one leg and wrap it around Blaine, opening more to him, trusting him not to let me fall.
He groans, his chest rumbling against my breasts, the vibrations stimulating my aching nipples, and he kneads my ass though the cotton robe, his grip intense. I rock against him as Blaine strokes his tongue into my mouth, his rhythm fierce and savage.
This is how I knew it’d be between us, our passion burning almost unbearably bright. I moan, arching my spine, submitting completely to his sweet assault.
Blaine slows and then stills, his muscles coiling under the fabric. He tears his mouth from mine. “No.” He steps backward. His chest heaves and his green eyes darken.
“No?” I wrap my arms around my chest, protecting myself from another rejection.
“Not like this. You deserve better.” Blaine rakes his fingers through his black hair. “I’m tired.” He sits down on his chair, the same chair I masturbated on last night. “So very tired.” He rubs his palms over his face. “And I have no control, not around you.” He gazes up at me, a breathtaking emotion reflects in his eyes, and my heart flips. “I said I wouldn’t touch you.”
“Ah, but I asked you to.” I retrieve the key. The clasp is broken, the ends fluttering in the breeze, free. I tie a knot at the end of the ribbon and loop it around my neck. The key hangs higher, the placement feeling as strange as our new relationship. “I simply didn’t use words.”
“I’m exhausted, Anna.” Blaine lies back on the lounge chair.
I study his big form with growing concern. Blaine isn’t the type of man to easily admit weakness. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“A few minutes on the plane.” His eyes smolder. “These negotiations normally take a week.”
“But you promised to return to me in a day.” I play with the key. One of the golden scrolls is dented, the imperfection making the piece even more interesting to touch. “And you always keep your promises.”
“I wanted to see you,” he states quietly.
I savor his words for a moment, warmth radiating from my heart. “Didn’t you see me last night?” Did he hear me? Did my confession add stress to an already difficult night?
“I always watch.” Blaine smiles gently. “You
are
a mystery, nymph.” I raise my chin. “And I understand. Sometimes we need to experience what wrong is before we know what’s right.”
He
was
listening last night and I’m glad. I don’t want secrets between us. “Is this right?” It isn’t normal. I know this. But normal isn’t always right.
“Yes.”
I slip my feet out of the flip-flops, untie the robe and shrug it off my shoulders. It falls to the stone with a sexy whoosh, and I stand before Blaine in the pure white bra and G-string he gave me. His eyes glow, his admiration open and arousing.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. I turn slowly, allowing him to see all of me, the night breeze cool on my bare ass cheeks. “How does it make you feel?”
“Cherished.” Loved. I’m not brave enough to say this.
“You are.” His eyelids lower, giving his face a sleepy sultry look.
I float to his chair, my feet light, and Blaine slides to one side, creating space on the cushion. I fill this space, pressing my body against his, splaying my fingers underneath his jacket, over his white shirt, finding his heartbeat. Heat rises from him, his cologne encircles me. He doesn’t reach out to touch me, my unrelenting billionaire. His hand grasps the edge of the cushion, his arm supports my neck.
“I want you to touch me, Blaine,” I whisper, bracing for rejection.
He rests his chin on top of my head. His breath stirs my hair. “Because you need to be touched.”
“Because I need to be touched by you.” I can’t look at him. My emotions are too raw, too exposed. Instead, I smooth his tie, the silk delectably soft.
Silence stretches between us. Fabric wisps against rattan. His fingers curve around my bare hip. His skin is rough and warm, and I tremble.
Blaine holds me, his answer in his possessive touch. I cuddle close to him, content with the stillness, with his embrace. The water flows down hard rock. Blaine’s body relaxes under mine, his breathing leveling, deepening. He sleeps, trusting me to watch over him.
I will. I close my eyes, savoring our connection, my world narrowing to his hand on my hip, his breath in my hair, the scent of sandalwood, musk, and man.
I’ll watch Blaine as he watches me, with tenderness and desire.
L
AST NIGHT
I
fell asleep in Gabriel Blaine’s arms. After weeks of allowing my billionaire neighbor to watch me as I lounged in his backyard naked, I’d finally given him permission to touch my body. My hardworking businessman had been too exhausted to do more than hold me close.
This morning I wake up alone, the sumptuously soft robe Blaine has given me draped over my near-naked body. The sun’s rays break the building-cluttered Beverly Hills horizon, coloring the sky pink. Birds chirp happily. Garden sprinklers whiz back and forth, back and forth. Sandalwood, musk, and the tang of cigar smoke, Blaine’s distinctive scents, drift on the cool breeze, teasing my nostrils, stirring my passion.
I want him . . . badly. As I sit up, the robe falls from my shoulders, revealing the golden key hanging on the black ribbon around my neck and my delicate white bra, more gifts from my enigmatic neighbor. My nipples tighten, yearning for his touch.
“Blaine?” I look around his backyard, searching for him. The naturally shaped pool is empty, the waterfall cascading down red rock, spreading ripples over the surface. The windows in the two-story mansion behind me are dark, the building’s design classic and timeless.
Blaine doesn’t answer.
I scan the small table beside my lounge chair, seeking clues to his whereabouts. A cigar butt is ground into the base of the ashtray, gray ashes sprinkle the terra-cotta. A sleek black phone and a crisp white sheet of paper rest on the table’s wooden surface.
I resist the temptation of the phone, having learned from my thief of a father not to touch objects that aren’t mine, and I pick up the note, the heavy black handwriting distinctively Blaine’s.
Had to go to the office.
Be a good girl, nymph. I’ll be watching.
Blaine
He’ll be watching. I glance at one of the many cameras positioned around the pool and I wiggle, swishing my ass against the seat cushion, excited by the thought of him watching me.
I carefully fold the note, remove the key from around my neck, tuck both into one of the robe’s pockets, and stand, leaving the robe on the lounge chair. Wearing only my bra and panties, I stretch, undulating my body, the stone hard against my bare feet, the sun warming my shoulders, breasts, ass, the solar caress decadent, naughty.
I unhook my bra, allowing the flimsy piece of cotton to fall to the ground. I cup my small breasts, offering them to the sun gods, and I tease my nipples with my fingers, pinching, squeezing, driving my arousal skyward.
Is Blaine stroking himself as he watches me? Is his cock hard, his brilliant green eyes dark with passion?
I hook my thumbs in the white ribbons hugging my hips and bend over, sticking my ass in the air as I pull my panties down. The cotton is soaked with my pussy juices, my musk hanging in the morning air.
I fluff my neatly trimmed brown curls and saunter to the waterfall, swaying my hips, playing the seductress, a role I never thought I’d warrant. Blaine has shown me the beauty in my brown hair, brown eyes, and small breasts.
I step into the waterfall and gasp, the cold water puckering my nipples, exciting my already excited body. I rub my palms over my breasts, my flat stomach, the flare of my hips, warming my skin, escalating my passions.
Leaves rustle and I look over my shoulder. I don’t see anyone, the hedge bordering the far fence thick and solid, home to chatty birds and frisky squirrels.
I imagine a man is watching me. He won’t dare to touch me, I belong to Blaine. He’ll only watch and touch himself, his jeans pulled down to his ankles, his cock in his hands.
I spread my legs wider and swivel my hips, allowing Blaine and my mysterious watcher to see my pink pussy lips. Do both of these men want to fill my virgin pussy hole with their big cocks? I strum my wet folds up and down, brushing my clit with my thumbs.
Only Blaine will have this honor. He’ll lift me against the rock and lower me on his thick shaft. I slip an index finger into my pussy, skimming my fingertip along my inner walls.
He’ll ram into me again and again, making my body his, claiming me completely. My legs tremble, my passion rising quickly, primed after a long night pressed against Blaine’s body.
I add a finger, stretching my pussy open as Blaine someday will, and I pump deep, fast, driving my arousal relentlessly higher. Need coils around me tighter and tighter. Pussy juices gush down my hand and water streams over my back and breasts, every inch of me touched, caressed.
I quiver, I shake, fulfillment rushing toward me, as unstoppable as the rising sun. I drive my fingers deep and I tap my clit with my thumb. The contact breaks me. I bite my bottom lip, stifling my scream, arching my spine, my pussy clenching my fingers, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing.
“Were you watching me, Blaine?” I murmur as the tremors subside. “That one was for you.” I hold out my fingers. The water washes my juices, my scent, off my skin.
I pump conditioner into my palms and apply it to the hair on my head and my private curls, the vanilla scent concealing my musk. Blaine leaves the conditioner for me, the formulation having the magical ability to tame my constant frizz.
I don’t rinse off, leaving the conditioner in, and I return to the lounge chair, the sun drying my skin. Extracting the key from the robe’s pocket, I return it to its rightful place, nestled between my breasts, the black ribbon soft and the gold key cool.
Refreshed and sexually sated, I shrug into the robe, slip my feet into my scuffed baby blue flip-flops, gather my panties and bra, and pad across Blaine’s lawn. Each step releases fragrances from the natural ground cover.
A honeybee moves industriously between lavender purple verbena, never pausing long at any blossom. He has work to do, an entire hive of bees depending upon him.
I unlock the gate separating Blaine’s semiwild backyard from the Leighs’ modern-art-strewn “entertainment venue.” This venue hasn’t been used for a month as the plastic surgeon and his wife gallivant around Europe fixing noses and increasing bra sizes. I’m house-sitting and, as a house-sitter, even their swimming pool is off limits to me.
I wander toward the concrete and glass modern bungalow, enter through the sliding back door, leaving my flip-flops outside, as shoes aren’t allowed inside the house, and I head to the converted storage closet serving as my bedroom.
I place the note from Blaine in the carry-on-size suitcase containing all of my worldly possessions. Discarding the robe, I change into one of the pretty white panties he sent me, the matching bra, denim cutoff shorts, and a tank top.
I spend the morning sorting through the mail, separating the bills from the Leighs’ personal letters and junk mail. My agreement with the doctor and his wife is I pay for utilities and maintenance in exchange for a free place to stay. I thought this would mean paying almost nothing.
My stomach twists with every envelope I open. I might have severely underestimated the utilities on a sprawling bungalow. I haven’t run the air conditioner once, suffering through the hellishly hot weather. I reduce lighting to the bare minimum. I’m barred from using Dr. Leigh’s enormous big screen TV and I don’t have a computer.
The total is still insanely high.
I must have made a mistake. I add the figures up again. The number doesn’t change, the amount owed equal to half of my monthly income. If I pay for the utilities with this Friday’s paycheck, I won’t be able to afford bus fare or food.
Boss man won’t give me any extra shifts at Feed Your Hungry, the charity I work for. I haven’t yet technically landed a meet and greet, Blaine’s donation being the only reason I’ve kept my job this long.
I have to get a second job.
I grab my black faux leather tote, slip my feet into my matching flats, and head out the front door. It’s Sunday, a day regular working-class folks relax at home. In the Leighs’ upper-class neighborhood, the houses are deserted and the front yards are empty.
Am I the sole survivor of an apocalypse, destined to wander the streets of Beverly Hills forever searching for food and a second job? Will I see Blaine, a neighbor, or anyone ever again?
An elderly man saunters out of a backyard, pulling a long green garden hose, and I beam at him, thrilled to see another living person. He nods to me, the weathered skin around his eyes permanently crinkled. He’s wearing a pale blue lawn maintenance uniform, the coveralls pulling tight over his stomach.
I slow my strolling to a crawl. Should I ask him if his employer is hiring? Or will any income I make from lawn maintenance be spent on sunscreen, protecting my pale skin from the harsh L.A. sun?
The man turns his back to me and waters the roses in front of the massive franken-mansion. The flowers’ fragrance mixes with the scent of freshly cut grass. I note the name on the back of his coveralls and continue walking to the shopping plaza, passing more immaculately maintained empty mansions.
Some of my rich neighbors have gathered at the coffee shop. The patio is packed with designer dressed twenty-something patrons hyped up on overpriced java.
At one umbrella-shaded table a sunglass-wearing man loudly curses, his phone pressed to his right ear, a huge cup of whipped-cream-topped ice coffee clasped in his left hand. To his right a big breasted blonde twirls her gum with her finger as she stares blankly at her phone’s screen. To his left a dark-haired artsy type taps furiously on his computer keyboard. Empty coffee cups and crushed cigarette packages litter the tabletop.
I’m not here for the coffee or for the first world angst. I head to the counter, looking for the manager, the gatekeeper to this possible second job.
A long line of frowning customers curls around the counter. Coffee aficionados recite orders at hyper speed, speaking a lingo I, as a non-coffee drinker, don’t understand. The baristas, wearing beige aprons, bob their heads, strained smiles fixed on their youthful faces, and they rush around the machines, adding ingredients and filling cups.
“Does this look like soy?” a bearded man yells at the tired-looking manager. He reaches into the cup with two hairy fingers and flicks the white foam at her pale face.
“I apologize, sir.” She wipes her cheeks with a beige paper napkin. “Nick, please replace this patron’s coffee and give him a gift card for another visit.”
The bearded man smirks and toddles to the front of the line. He relays his lengthy coffee requirements, including the order in which the ingredients should be added, his tone pompous.
I gulp, intimidated by the customers, needing the money and flexibility this job will give me. I wave my hand and the manager’s head turns. “Can I ask you a quick question?”
“A quick question.” She has dark circles under her brown eyes, and tendrils of coffee-colored hair have escaped from her ponytail.
“Are you hiring?” I summon my best smile.
The manager reaches under the counter and pulls out a form. “Fill this out and we’ll schedule you for training.” She hands the paper to me.
“I—”
“Miss.” A woman interrupts my question, which would have been about the hours worked. Her voice is shrill, her perfectly straight nose wrinkled and her red lips curled. “I ordered ice made from mineral water. This tastes like tap.”
“Let me take care of that for you.” The manager rushes to help her. I wait. Another customer demands her attention. I wait some more.
Is she coming back? I don’t know. I slip the application form into my tote, planning to fill it out later, and I drift to the community board to scan the postings, hoping to find a less stressful opportunity.
Someone has lost an angry-looking purebred Persian cat called Mr. Snookems. The reward is greater than a week’s pay at Feed Your Hungry.
A cleaning service will wash windows using environmentally friendly products. They don’t hire illegals yet charge less than minimum wage.
For five dollars I can learn how to stuff envelopes for money. I can stuff envelopes and I do need money. I pull off a tab, the contact information neatly printed, a post office box number given as the address.
“Why couldn’t we leave the bags in the car? You have me loaded up like a pack mule.”
I hear Michael Cooke’s deep voice behind me and I stiffen.
The last time I saw my stunningly handsome coworker, I rejected his romantic advances. As we work together at Feed Your Hungry, I know I’ll have to face him on Monday.
I don’t want to face him today. I stare intently at a posting for at-home bikini waxes, calling upon my power of invisibility, a power I’ve perfected over the years.
“Just carry them, son.” A woman sighs dramatically. This must be Michael’s movie star mother. “I didn’t bring you along for your good looks.” Other women laugh and a wave of perfume sweeps over me. Shopping bags brush against my bare calves.
I slide my gaze to the left. Michael leans over the barrier between the ordering and dining areas. His khaki pants pull across his shapely ass and his wide shoulders stress a navy blue hemp shirt. Birkenstocks are on his tanned feet. He plops a half dozen high-end shopping bags on an empty tabletop
A trio of blond-haired women fill the seats, chattering happily, cosmetics and plastic surgery supplementing their aging beauty. One woman’s face is stretched unnaturally tight, giving her a catlike appearance. Another woman’s forehead is eerily smooth, her range of emotions limited. The third woman smiles at Michael and I catch my breath, the family resemblance unmistakable.
Michael’s drop dead gorgeous mother has his sky-blue eyes, golden tan, and blond hair. She doesn’t have his casual style. She’s impeccably dressed in a simple white sheath dress, the impossible-to-keep-clean designer garment accentuating her generous bosom.
I glance down at the faded tank top clinging to my small breasts and take a step toward the door. I should leave. The manager will never have time to talk to me, not with the crazy day she’s having, and I don’t want to meet Michael’s mother looking the way I do, like someone unworthy of bussing the table she’s sitting around.
“No more changing your orders.” Michael laughs loudly, shaking his index finger at the ladies. They twitter, clearly enjoying his teasing, and he saunters toward me. He looks perfect, stunning, and I hold my breath, my heart beating wildly, my mind spinning. What should I say to him? Should I mention Friday’s kiss or should I pretend it never happened?