by Cynthia Sax
HE WATCHES ME
The Seen Trilogy: Part One
CYNTHIA SAX
Dedication
For my dear wonderful hubby,
for proving love at first sight can last forever.
And also for J.K. Coi, Christine d’Abo,
Amy Ruttan, and Wylie Snow,
for being four of the most generous,
supportive writers in Romanceland.
I love you all.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
An Excerpt from He Touches Me
Chapter One
About the Author
Also by Cynthia Sax
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
I’M LIKE A ghost. I drift aimlessly through the Leigh’s empty Beverly Hills mansion, my bare feet slapping against the painted gray concrete floor, shoes not allowed in the sprawling modern bungalow.
I’m not dead. I move the oversized, never-been-opened book staged on the chrome coffee table an inch to the right. I’m breathing. I flick one light on and turn another light off, maintaining the minimum required amount of illumination. I have a physical form. I rearrange some of the catalogues, creating the illusion that they have been recently placed on the modern glass table, all of the stores featured priced out of a new graduate’s budget. But I’m not living, not truly, and no one sees me . . . which is how I like it.
I tilt my head back and study one of the many life-sized portraits of Suzanna Leigh hanging on the walls. No one would dare look at Mrs. Leigh with disapproval. The plastic surgeon’s wife, with her blond hair, blue eyes, and big breasts, is the epitome of L.A. beauty. I’m not. I have brown hair, brown eyes, and a flat chest. I pluck at my faded pink camisole, the garment clinging to my small breasts, and I continue my stroll.
The sheer silver curtains billow in the night breeze, the windows cracked open in an attempt to alleviate the stifling heat. I can’t afford to turn the air-conditioning on. My agreement with the Leighs is to pay for the upkeep and utilities while they jaunt around Europe, straightening noses and increasing bra sizes. In exchange, I get a free place to stay.
A trickle of perspiration runs down my bare nape, my constantly frizzy hair pulled up into a ponytail. The digital wall clock buzzes midnight, and I should return to the tiny bedroom I’ve been assigned. Instead, I wander to the back door, seeking lower temperatures.
I slip my feet into a pair of scuffed baby blue flip-flops and slide the door open, venturing into the darkness. The scent of newly cut grass teases my nostrils, the gardeners having mowed during the day while I was at work.
Work. I sigh, looking out at the covered pool, wishing to swim, that indulgence denied to me by the Leighs. Who gets fired from a charity? I suspect this will be my fate tomorrow, my inability to raise donation money straining even my boss’s easygoing personality.
I impulsively grab the towel I had left drying on the deck railing and meander across the modern-art-littered lawn toward the wrought-iron gate, unconsciously moving closer to the property I’ve sworn never to trespass onto again. The soothing sound of falling water calls to me.
I gaze between the ornately crafted bars separating me from nirvana, the gate locked. Water cascades down rock into a naturally shaped pool, the feature blending into the purposefully wild backyard.
Only the pool is lit. The two-story house, its design as classic as the Leighs’, is contemporary, and is shrouded, as always, in darkness. I’m not surprised. I’ve seen Gabriel Blaine, its elusive and surprisingly young owner, only once in the three weeks I’ve been house-sitting.
That once made an impact. I had been fiddling with the finicky front door lock when the billionaire exited from a long black limousine. He paused, turned his head toward me, and our gazes met, his eyes brilliant green and hard, so very hard. Even the lock of ink-black hair falling over his forehead failed to soften his sharp chin and pronounced cheekbones.
My keys dropped from my lifeless fingers to the concrete steps and I froze, unable to breathe. Blaine’s lips twitched and he inclined his head toward me as though I had confirmed something he’d long suspected. I, idiot that I am, nodded back, agreeing to what? I don’t know.
Whatever I had agreed upon seemed to satisfy Blaine. He moved like a predator toward his rarely used mansion, his stride smooth and almost graceful. He disappeared into his home, closing the door behind him, and I haven’t seen him since.
I won’t see him today either, and it would be a shame not to use his gorgeously cool swimming pool. Trespassing is against the law but I am too much my father’s daughter to allow little things like laws stop me. I toss my towel over the fence and climb over the wrought iron, thanking my misspent youth on the rough streets of Detroit for developing this handy skill.
I pick up the towel and I pad to the edge of the pool, my flip-flops bending the grass as I walk. I pause and look around me, having the peculiar feeling someone is watching me.
I see nothing. Blaine’s mansion is outlined against the indigo sky. The moon hangs full and low, its light reflecting off the glass in the windows. The water ripples, tempting me.
I spread the towel on a nearby lounge chair, my body warming with excitement, this small act of rebellion keeping me sane during days of monotony. I kick off my flip-flops and I wiggle my toes, the stone cool and hard against my soles.
I pull my camisole over my head, the action freeing my hair from the ponytail. Yet another elastic band is lost in the grass. I drop the worn garment on the stone, planning to retrieve it later. My nipples tighten, the breeze caressing my bare skin, its touch lighter than my fingers, the only touch my breasts have known.
I’m a virgin priestess honoring the night. I arch my spine and cup my small breasts, offering them to the stars. They twinkle their approval above me. Maybe on a distant planet an alien is gazing down on the Earth, watching me, wanting me, small breasts being desirable in his culture. This fantasy excites me. I swipe my thumbs over my taut flesh and tremble at the sensations flowing over my body.
My pussy moistens. I shimmy out of my bleached white boy shorts and leave them in a puddle around my bare feet, enjoying the decadence of being naked in Gabriel Blaine’s backyard, a creature of nature, wild and free.
I face the pool and my pale body reflects in the surface, my form slim and supple. My breasts are small, slight ivory curves tipped with tight pink nipples, and my private hair is full, untrimmed and untamed. Both are frowned upon in L.A., the land of waxing and silicone, and I normally conceal my unpopular silhouette under layers of clothing.
Not that anyone looks at me, which is a good thing . . . I suppose. I’ve been ignored and I’ve been ridiculed. Long ago I decided being invisible was preferable. Michael Cooke, the charity’s resident hottie, might walk past me as though I was a piece of office furniture, but at least I never see disgust in his sea-blue eyes.
Now, I’m free to be hairy, flat-chested Anna Sampson. No one is here except me and the stars and—I glance upward—perhaps a horny alien. I extend my arms, bend my knees and dive into the water. I shoot across the pool, undulating, cool liquid streaming over my shoulders, breast, thighs, ass.
I curve upward and break the surface. I gasp and then laugh, unable to contain the joy bubbling within me. The stresses of a job I want yet can’t do, student loans I don’t know how I’ll ever pay back, and a life lived alone rolls off my shoulders.
I tread water with my feet and the waves lap at my b
reasts, slapping against my nipples, escalating my reckless need. I’ve never had sex, but that’s due to being distrustful of other people, not because of lack of passion. I burn. I need. Constantly. I run my right hand over my chest, across my flat stomach and between my legs, seeking relief.
I stroke my folds, brushing my fingertips over my clit, bobbing to the rhythm of my hand, adding my juices to the moisture surrounding me. I picture Michael with his shaggy blond hair, broad shoulders, and tight khaki-clad ass, imagining his blue-eyed gaze fixed on me and only me. I envision a giant purple alien watching me masturbate, his humanoid body naked, his cock overly large and extremely hard. And for some unknown reason, I conjure up piercing green eyes in a too-rawboned-to-be-handsome tanned face, a wayward lock of black hair falling forward.
“Gabriel Blaine.” I try out the technology billionaire’s name, my voice husky and low. “Blaine,” I repeat, liking the sound. I’m in his backyard, in his pool. It is only right I honor him with my impending orgasm. I work my pussy harder and harder, passion coiling around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
Will he suck my breasts with that sternly-set mouth of his? I pinch my nipples, the pain sharpening my pleasure. Take me doggy-style in his big limousine, pounding into me hard and fast? I pull at my untamed private curls. Because he can’t wait to find a bed? I ruthlessly ravish my pussy, rubbing and writhing. Rivulets of liquid streak down my cheeks and into my panting mouth, my wet hair plastered to my face.
In my fantasies I’m not ignored. I’m a femme fatale, a woman no man can resist, a woman guys fight for, come to blows over. I reach deeper inside me, stretching me open with one, two, three fingers, savoring the fullness.
As I pump my pussy, the sensation of being watched intensifies. Instead of dousing the flames of desire, this fuels the heat between my thighs.
I tremble and shake. “Yes, Blaine,” I cry out, the waves surround me growing rough, my body tossed on a sea of sweet turbulence. “Yes.”
I thrust hard, slam the heel of my hand against my clit, throw back my head and scream. The darkness bursts with color and light. The stars spin around my head. My pussy clenches down on emptiness. I kick my legs, pushing my body out of the water. Droplets dapple and glisten on my skin.
My breathing steadies, the water flattens once more, and I still, my form loose and relaxed, my passion temporarily sated. I float lazily on my back and gaze up at the full moon, wishing I could take care of the other problems in my life as easily as I soothe my desires. “That was wonderful.” The words echo in the silence.
“I agree,” a deep voice drawls.
I shriek and flay my arms and legs, thrashing. Water splashes over my face and I choke and sputter.
“That was wonderful, natural and real.”
I spit out pool water and turn my head toward that sexy voice. “You were watching me.” I state the obvious, wishing I could duck my head under the surface and disappear forever. Is this the level of embarrassment my mom felt when my dad went to prison? Is this why she left town and never came back?
A flame flares and the speaker leans forward, the pool lights illuminating a tanned angular face and glowing green eyes. “I’ve been watching you every night.” Gabriel Blaine, the Leighs’ billionaire neighbor and owner of the pool I swim naked in, puffs on a cigar, his lean cheeks slightly indenting.
I paddle to the deep end, hoping the shadows will conceal what he’s already seen, multiple times, in various states of undress. He’s been watching me every night. Why? Surely a man like him can watch more beautiful—I glance down at my flat chest—and more blessed women.
“And you didn’t say anything until now?” I ask an emotionally safer question as I eye my discarded clothes, wondering how I’ll reach them without giving him another show, pondering why I care.
He’s seen me naked, more than naked. Tonight, I pleasured myself in the water, but on the other nights I waited until I exited from the pool, spreading my legs wide on one of the tan-colored lounge chairs.
Blaine exhales slowly and a ring of smoke drifts upward, dissipating into nothing. I wrinkle my nose in distaste, not understanding smoking’s appeal.
“I was in New York,” he finally explains. Despite the suffocating heat, he’s wearing a black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a plain forest green tie, tightly knotted. “I watched you on the security cameras.”
Security cameras? Oh Lord. My cheeks heat. My midnight swims have been filmed. “Did anyone else see?” I whisper, unable to voice the question louder.
Is the footage posted on the Internet? Has everyone I know seen me naked? My boss? My coworkers? Michael? Will they look at me with disgust and disapproval? Murmur, “What can we expect from a thief’s daughter?” in hushed voices as I pass?
“Does it bother you if others see you?” Blaine meets my gaze, his green eyes glittering, emerald stars in the dark night. He doesn’t appear disgusted, his expression comfortingly blank, devoid of all emotion, of all judgment. “You’re a beautiful young woman, Anna.”
“You know my name.” I drift to the perimeter of the pool and cling to the edge, pressing my body against the hard stone, vividly aware of my nakedness.
“I know more than that.” Blaine inclines his dark head. “I’m a private man.” He taps his cigar against a terra-cotta ashtray, the lights over the pool reflecting off his green cuff links. “I don’t allow many people onto my property.”
Yet he allowed me. I frown, confused. And he watched me while I swam. He called me beautiful. “You’re crazy.”
He barks with laughter. The sound is abrupt and unexpected, even to Blaine. His forehead furrows and he tilts his head, studying me, his gaze intense, all knowing and all seeing. I feel even more naked than I already am.
“Hmmm . . .” Blaine hums. “You may be right.” He stands, shaking the nonexistent wrinkles out of his suit. His shoulders are broad and he’s tall, taller than I remember. I shiver with feminine appreciation. He picks up my towel, the white cotton contrasting vividly against his tanned fingers. “Come out of my pool, nymph.”
“No way.” I huddle closer to the edge. My response is childish, I know. I have to leave the water eventually. Sprinting naked to the fence and climbing over the wrought iron will expose more of my body than simply retrieving my towel.
Blaine’s lips flatten into a grim white line and I tremble, feeling his disapproval down to my lonely soul. “You’ll see,” I explain.
His mouth eases and some of my tension dissipates. “I’ve already seen.”
He’s right. He’s seen everything. I search for the cause of my discomfort. “You’ll touch me.” This both worries me and excites me.
Blaine’s lips lift. “I won’t touch you, not unless you ask me to. I merely want to watch.” He spreads the towel out before him with two hands, creating the illusion of a wall being erected between us.
I trust him. I don’t know why. Maybe because the young billionaire has a choice of women he can touch, gorgeous Hollywood starlets. Why would he force himself on me?
“I won’t ask you to touch me.” Even I hear the doubt in my voice, but Blaine, thankfully, says nothing. I take a deep breath, count to five and exhale. “You won’t touch me,” I repeat, needing to hear the words again, even from my own mouth.
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, h
is 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.
