by Jiffy Kate
Table of Contents
Other Books by Jiffy Kate
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Contents
Other Books by Jiffy Kate
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Watch and See
Copyright © 2018 by Jiffy Kate.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact
Jiffy Kate Books, LLC
http://www.jiffykate.com/
Editing by Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing
Cover Design and Interior Formatting by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl Design
Proofreading by Karin Enders
Cover Model/Photographer by Franggy Yanez
First Edition: February 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Would you like to read more books by Jiffy Kate?
Finding Focus Series (complete):
Finding Focus
Chasing Castles
Fighting Fire
Taming Trouble
Table 10 (Parts 1-3)
The Other One
“It’s better to cross the line and suffer the consequences than to just stare at the line for the rest of your life.”
-Unknown
His large palms and long fingers press firmly against the glass, while her pale back slides vigorously up and down, a mess of red hair in tangles around her.
Everything I observe on the other side of that window hits somewhere deep within me, igniting a fire I didn’t know was possible.
I watch.
I see.
I feel.
Her legs unravel from his waist, and he spins her around. She braces her hands against the glass and her mouth drops open as he enters her from behind. This is the first glimpse I’ve got of her face, and she’s beautiful. Her features are soft and delicate. But she’s no different than the rest—they’re all beautiful.
This is his favorite position. He takes almost every woman like this. And since it’s a favorite of his, it’s also become a favorite of mine. Well, a favorite to watch. I’ve only ever had sex in the missionary position, but I have a good imagination.
I continue to watch. He pushes; she pushes. He pulls; she surrenders. Sometimes, it’s slow and sensual. Other times, it’s fast and hard. It’s up to him. He sets the pace. The women are at his mercy, but I never see them leave without a sated expression. So, I can only guess it’s as good for them as it is for him...and for me.
The woman’s beautiful face contorts as she throws her head back. Judging by the way her mouth is hanging open and her throat is moving, I imagine she’s screaming, probably his name.
He bends her over even farther, his strong hands gripping her torso as his hips collide with hers, and he continues to thrust in and out forcefully. The sweat coating his chest accentuates the definition of his muscles. Gritted teeth and a tight jaw tell me he’s getting close, which disappoints me because I could watch him for hours.
I let out a breath I’ve been holding, licking my dry lips as I watch him push in even harder, his movements becoming erratic.
I probably shouldn’t watch. I’m sure some would think it’s perverse.
I don’t have a fetish, per se, but I do have to admit I get off.
I’d have to be dead not to.
Eventually, his body relaxes, and he pulls out, quickly walking to a nearby trashcan and disposing of the condom. His firm backside is almost as good as the front. I bite my lip, watching the muscles in his back. I want that. I want him.
She disappears, probably going to the bathroom to get cleaned up. He continues to walk around the living room naked. He’s still somewhat erect, and even in this state, it’s something that makes my mouth water and my imagination run wild.
I’m definitely going to have to take a bath before the ice cream tonight. There’s no way I can stand the throbbing between my legs any longer.
Regretfully, I place the binoculars down on the window sill and head for the bathroom. Turning on the faucet, I let the scene from the last few minutes play on loop as I check the temperature of the water until it’s just right.
When the tub is full, I step in and sink down, resting my head back and allowing the warmth to envelop me—my mind immediately going to him. Closing my eyes, I imagine him. I think about what it would be like to be in the window...to be his prey...to be consumed by him.
His hands.
His mouth.
His tongue.
Slipping my hand between my legs, I press my middle finger firmly against my clit and make slow circles before dipping down and collecting the wetness that has nothing to do with my bath. It doesn’t take long for me to coax an orgasm to the surface. The familiar tightness in my stomach has me increasing the friction and chasing my release.
Exhaling my appreciation, I sink further into the tub. I’m not completely sated, like the women when they leave his apartment, but I’ve taken the edge off enough to relieve the ache.
When I’m out of the bath and dried off, I walk to the freezer, making my selection for the night.
Red Velvet Cake.
Returning to the window sill with my carton of ice cream, I curl my legs under me and pick the binoculars back up.
He’s alone, and he’s no longer naked, but this look is a close second. The gray sweatpants he’s wearing hang loosely on his hips, displaying the V of his muscles that lead down below. His hair is wet. I don’t know why, but thinking of him being in the shower at the same time I was in the bath makes me feel connected to him in some weird way. I like it. Sometimes, I like watching what he does after the women leave almost as much as I enjoy watching what he does
while they’re there.
Almost.
Each day, I hurry home from the library as fast as I can. A few weeks ago, I noticed I was starting to check my watch every fifteen minutes. Last week, I bailed on an extra hour of work, something I wouldn’t normally do because I need the money. I made up a lame excuse about having a headache and ran home to my binoculars.
I’m worried this little hobby is turning into more of an obsession than a passing interest. Knowing my family history with addiction, I should probably be concerned, but as far as I know, voyeurism and ice cream aren’t fatal.
“Harper,” Mr. Chan yells as I fly through the glass door of the Chinese restaurant and through the narrow hallway that leads to the small set of stairs.
“Not right now, Mr. Chan. I’m kinda in a hurry.” I glance at my watch for the fifth time and notice it’s seven minutes until eight, barely enough time to grab a pint and get in my spot. Sometimes, he’s a little late. Still, I’d rather be sitting, waiting, than to miss part of the show.
Show.
I snort to myself, thinking it’s definitely more than a show. It’s like a work of art, a masterpiece, something for which good money should be paid. Lucky for me and my shallow pocket book, I get it for free.
“You must eat,” Mr. Chan sing-songs behind me. “You no eat, you get too skinny.”
“Thanks, Mr. Chan, but I can’t right now.”
He catches up to me and shoves a brown paper sack into my hand. “Is on the house,” he says with a nod of his head. His kind smile forces me to smile back, even if I am going to be late.
Thank you.”
“Hot Sour Soup, your favorite.”
I raise the bag up and sniff it. It does smell amazing, and it is my favorite. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“Rent due in five days,” he yells as I take the stairs two at a time.
“Yes, five days,” I yell back. “I’ll have it to you in four. Promise!”
The only way I can afford to live in the city—close to the rehab facility—is to live above a Chinese restaurant. I use the term apartment loosely, it’s something that used to be a storage room. The small space has enough room for my twin bed, a small refrigerator, a two-burner stove, a tiny table, and a big comfy chair that was already here when I moved in. Fortunately, there’s also a bathroom with a small tub. Well, the tub was an afterthought that’s squeezed tightly into the small space, but I’m just glad someone thought of it. It’s enough for me.
I pull out my keys and unlock both locks. The good thing about living right above the restaurant is Mr. Chan is always around, and that makes me feel safe. The bad thing is that my apartment always smells like Moo Goo Gai Pan.
Hurrying inside, I set the brown paper sack on the window sill. I toss my backpack on the bed and quickly undress, discarding my skirt, blouse, and bra with a sigh of relief before replacing them with an oversized t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants.
When I’m finally in my spot—hair knotted on top of my head, binoculars in hand—I take a peek across the way, toward a building one street over—apartment 4B, if I had to guess—to see if I’ve missed any of the action.
When my eyes find what they’re looking for, my stomach flips.
He’s there.
My heart begins to beat faster, hammering against my chest. I sit up on my knees and scoot closer to the glass, as if it will somehow make me closer to him. Swallowing slowly, I adjust the binoculars, which I’ve come to treasure, until my view is crystal clear.
I found them the day I moved in. There was a dusty, beat up box. I asked Mr. Chan about it, but he told me it was a box his brother had left up there after the war. He never specified what war, but he acted like he didn’t want whatever was in the box, so I asked if I could go through it. “Find anything, is yours,” he said, waving above his head toward the apartment.
All that had been inside the box was this amazing pair of old binoculars and a book in Chinese. I put the book on a shelf I made from crates I’d found out back. Sometimes, I pretend to read the book, but mostly, I just stare at the symbols, wondering how anyone learns to speak a language that looks so complicated. The binoculars, though, have become my new best friend. Without a television or computer, the only thing I have to occupy my time after work are books, but I’m surrounded by books all day, and occasionally my mind needs a break from fantasy worlds.
Not that what I’m watching isn’t a fantasy, but it’s visual, whereas most of the alternate realities I reside in are all made up from words on a page.
This is living color.
I watch as he walks over to his bar, adjacent to the window, and pours a drink. The liquid in the glass makes me swallow again, imagining what it tastes like on his tongue. He swirls the liquor around before lifting it to his perfect lips and draining the glass. It’s his ritual. He does it every night he brings someone home.
I turn my focus to the woman of the evening. She’s sitting on the couch near the window. Her long blonde hair is straight as a board, tucked neatly behind her ears—a classic choice. The black dress she’s wearing is simple yet seductive, accompanied by what look like sheer black stockings, with black stilettos completing the look.
It’s a look I could never pull off. I’m envious of women who can. The only look I can pull off is skirts and cardigans. I know it’s a bit cliché. I work in a library and wear cardigans every day. How much more basic and unoriginal can I be?
Yeah, he’d never look twice at someone like me.
She stands and faces him and it’s like watching a lion with his prey. I can tell they’re talking by the movement of their lips and the occasional change of facial expressions. I wish I could hear everything. I wish I could hear his voice...his words. I only have my imagination for that part.
He walks closer and runs his hand down her arm to her waist and grabs her, pulling her to him tightly. Her long blonde hair flies back with the force, but by the way she lifts one foot off the ground and leans farther into him, I can tell she likes it. She’s into it...into him.
His mouth goes to her ear, and he whispers something to her. I can’t see his face. It’s hidden by hers, but her expression—the way she closes her eyes and bites down on her bottom lip—lets me know that it’s affecting her, whatever it is. God, what I would give to know what makes her react like that.
Her hand grips his shoulder tightly, wrinkling the fabric of his crisp white shirt.
His hand goes to her back, making fast work of the zipper on her dress.
Once unzipped, he pushes the black fabric until it pools at her feet. She goes to remove her stockings, but he stops her, shaking his head. Standing back, he admires her for a split second, folding his arms in front of him, rubbing his scruffy jaw, like he’s trying to decide what to do with her.
Taking a step toward her and reaching out, he turns her around and swiftly unclasps her bra and drops it to the floor, kicking it out of his way, along with her dress. Then he kneels, turning her back to face him, pulling her to him. I can see perfectly, and I watch as he inhales deeply before his teeth nip at her stockings. His tongue darts out, and he wedges his face between her legs. Even though there is a barrier between them, his touch causes her head to fall back. Her long hair cascades down her back, practically touching her ass. He pulls the stockings down, ripping them. She has nothing else on underneath and is now standing bare before him.
She doesn’t hide.
She doesn’t seem nervous.
She just stands there, allowing him to have his way with her...nipping and licking...sucking, until she’s gripping his hair and forcing him closer.
Suddenly, he stands up, tossing her over his shoulder, her bare ass up in the air for all to see. Or me. Just me. Because being four stories up, I’m sure it seems as if they’re hidden away from the world...alone in their haze of passion.
But I have to wonder if he gets off from doing this. If the chance of being exposed and seen is part of the arousal, because he always fuck
s them in the window.
While she’s still over his shoulder, he pulls her shoes off and yanks the remains of her stockings off, tossing them to the floor before he places her in front of the window and spreads her legs apart. From this position, I have the best vantage point. Although, I can’t see all of him, I can see her, and her expressions tell me everything I need to know.
It’s good.
It’s so good she wants to cry.
It’s so good she probably doesn’t even know where she is or care. She probably doesn’t even remember her name.
For the time being, she’s in that window, she’s his. That’s it. That’s all that matters. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Her medium-sized breasts push up against the window, and her mouth drops open as he pushes himself inside her. Two sets of hands are pressed against the glass—her small ones and his large ones.
Her beautiful face morphs from pain to pleasure to ecstasy. I can see the second her emotions overtake her; her porcelain face practically breaks as she cries out—probably his name. He wraps his hand around her long corn silk hair and pulls her head back, opening up her neck for his lips as he continues to thrust into her.
For a moment, his eyes gaze out the window, and I freeze, tensing up. I know he can’t see me. I know that, but the smirk that forms on his lips makes me think he hopes someone sees them. He wants someone to see them. He gets off knowing it’s a possibility. That thought makes my heart beat even faster, and I swallow hard.
With her head tilted back, I get to watch him. His jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare. His equally beautiful face turns a dark shade of red, and I can see a bead of sweat drip off his nose. His tongue licks it as it runs across his lips, and then he licks her, tasting her, sucking at the skin on her shoulder.
She removes her hands from the glass and wraps them around his neck, holding him there. When her body begins to go limp from exertion, he presses her harder into the window, using it to fortify her, until he finishes.
They stay against the glass for a short time, both catching their breath. I match their pace, catching my own that I’ve been holding as I watched them climax. My legs are squeezed tightly together, wanting the same friction I’ve been witnessing but knowing I’ll never have that. A warm bath and my hand will take care of the throb between my legs, but later.
