by Harlem Dae
Watching Her
By Harlem Dae
Watching Her: text copyright © Harlem Dae 2017
All Rights Reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Lily Harlem.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Please note this book is intended for mature readers.
Artwork by Studioenp.
Edited by Studioenp.
Back Cover Information
What wouldn’t I do?
Indulged and spoiled, fed everything I’d ever craved on a silver spoon, I still was lacking. A need for more had grown in the hot house I’d been raised in. It was a thirst I couldn’t quench, a hunger that wouldn’t be satisfied.
Until he came along. Hardly a knight in shining armour, he left me greedier than ever before. Travelling the globe, sashaying my hips and showing off my wares as I went, I never could have guessed the danger that was stalking me. Or who was stalking me.
Until the only thing that had ever mattered to me was threatened, and then I had to sit up and smell the roses. Torn between a ghost and a man who was strangely immune to my charms, I found myself on the run.
Trouble was, I was galloping into the danger and not away from it. I had to—instinct had taken over. She was all that mattered. I couldn’t fail. I had to face my demons and hope the guardians who’d been sent to protect me were up to the job.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
About Harlem Dae
Good Cop, Bad Cop – free first chapter
Prologue
“Once upon a time…” I twirled, eyes closed, face lifted to the burn of the sun streaming through the glass roof. “They all lived happily ever after. On and on they lived, happily, happily ever after.”
Speckles of blood-red danced over my eyelids, and the momentum of my spin floated my silky white skirt outwards. The gush of air over my bare thighs thrilled me, as did the knowledge that my lack of underwear would be evident if my speed increased.
But I didn’t care.
This huge Victorian glasshouse was mine, all mine.
I was the princess in the castle, Rapunzel, lady of the manor. All I needed was my Prince Charming, my knight in shining armour, my fantasy to sweep me off my feet and into his bed.
It took some concentration to stay in the same spot, to not stumble into the pink lantern orchids to my left or the celosia on my right. But Father had paid for stuffy, over-priced ballet classes for years, so I continued to pirouette perfectly, the action natural and fluid and as elegant as a windmill on the highest hill.
I giggled, dizziness creeping up on me. I went faster; the tiny sounds of the balls of my feet tapping on gritty cobbles filled the sticky, heated silence. My skirt rose, humid air caressed my buttocks, and warmth slipped between my legs, into my most private place.
The fingering touch of air, there, gave me a shivering sensation. It tugged at my belly, a seemingly tangible, thin wire drawing my insides together, coiling up a need that longed to build into something cataclysmic, explosive, so powerful it would leave me breathless.
“Have you forgotten something?”
The sound of his deep voice plundered my dreamy thoughts and tangled with the giddiness filling my brain. There was a swelling in my chest; it reminded me of a balloon filling with water, so much water it pressed against my breastbone.
But I didn’t stop whirling. I carried on, giving him a good view of what he could have. A laugh erupted, bursting from my mouth and gliding upwards on a hot air current.
“You’ll fall,” he said.
“No I won’t.” I’d denied it but he was right. If I continued much longer I would lose my balance. Topple over.
As I slowed, my skirt settled back into place, landing vaporously over my thighs. My skin, as well as being hot, was super-sensitive, almost crying out to feel, to feel anything other than my skirt—the sun’s rays, the atmosphere, the drift of fronds, leaves, petals, the brush of an insect wing.
His hands.
I faced the direction I guessed him to be, although it was difficult in my light-headed state, with my eyes still closed to reality.
What does he see?
Arms outstretched to the sides, palms up, sacrificial, I held the pose.
This day, this moment, was something I’d fantasised about, dreamt of…planned.
The fairies in the walled garden to the west of the main house had been a fascination of mine for years, and now, I wanted to be the same as them, nymph-like, a treat to behold, a sprite who could tempt. I was beckoning, giving permission, enticing. Challenging him to resist my allure.
“That dress is see-through, you know?”
Yes, I did know. When I’d plucked it from the cupboard that morning I’d held it up to the window. The diamond-white rays had pierced the material, which had had no choice but to surrender to the power of the distant star. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
I smiled. Imagined him standing, arms at his sides, staring, and allowing his gaze to roam unashamedly over my body because it didn’t matter, we were alone here, and I had my eyes closed, unaware of his observations. He could gawp all he wanted.
Silence stretched between us.
The hairs on my arms tingled; an electrical charge travelled over my shoulders and contracted the skin at my nape. The potent heat then slicked over my scalp, slipped to my cheeks, and down to my throat. Knowing he was drinking me in with his gaze was as stimulating as an actual caress.
I held my breath. Not wanting the moment to end. My nipples beaded, my stomach tightened. I hoped I wouldn’t faint.
Is his cock hard?
Images of cocks I’d seen online—for I’d never seen a real one—burst into my mind. They came in all shapes and sizes, colours, too, which had surprised me. What was his like? Long and whistle-thin, or stubby and bloated? Perhaps it was huge, too big to take into my body, or maybe slim and short, the same as the candle I’d practiced with.
I hoped so.
“Are you going to help me or what?” he asked, his words cracking the deliciously intoxicating atmosphere with the elegance of an axe on glass.
“Er, yes, if you want me to.” I dropped my arms and opened my eyes, then blinked several times in the harsh daylight.
He’d
turned from me, no doubt had had his fill of seeing my young, female form outlined in my diaphanous dress.
“The zinnias need repotting. I was going show you how to take cuttings from them.” He reached for a pair of secateurs.
“Oh, okay.” I pouted.
He wasn’t playing my game. The plan had been that he’d be so overwhelmed with lust for me, unable to resist my heart-stopping beauty, that he’d sweep me into his arms and kiss me until we were both barely able to breathe.
Reaching for a pair of flowery pink gardening gloves, I studied him from behind, pout still in place. He wore his usual racing-green polo top that had Juniper Hall, Head Gardener embroidered on it, and jeans that had been deep-ocean blue once but now were faded, and one back pocket, over his right buttock, was missing, showing only the scars of the stitching. On his feet, clumpy boots, deep treads and dusty.
Head Gardener. That made me laugh. He was the only gardener Father employed. It was a big job, what with six acres and two vintage greenhouses full of rare breed plants, but Aaron handled it beautifully, just the way I was sure he’d handle me beautifully.
If only he’d take the opportunity.
Slipping on the gloves, I walked up to him, stood close, my right arm almost but not quite brushing his left.
The heat of his body swept over mine, and his scent, which reminded me of the open ocean off the coast of St Lucia, invaded my nostrils.
“You should wear shoes in here,” he said, reaching for a zinnia in a limescale-stained terracotta pot. “There might be sharp things on the floor.”
“I like being barefoot. It makes me feel free, like the birds and the bees.” I pressed my lips together, holding in a titter.
He glanced at me, his dark eyes narrowed, his lashes almost touching.
I adored his long eyelashes. They weren’t curved like mine, they were dead straight, and his upper lids were a little over-large. It gave him an exotic appearance, as if he truly belonged here with the tropical flowers he loved so much. They were made for each other. The flowers relied on him for sustenance and protection, and he needed them to fulfill the nurturing and artistic traits of his personality.
“Aaron,” I said then licked my lips.
“Mmm.” He turned and expertly tipped the pot, catching the soil-encased root ball in his large hand.
“Have you enjoyed teaching me?”
“Of course.” He continued with what he was doing.
“It hasn’t been a burden?”
“No.”
I smiled and moved slightly closer, the hairs on my arms springing out towards his. See, we were meant to be—our bodies called to each other. “Oh good, I’d hate it if I were a trouble to you.”
“You’ve been an exemplary student,” he said. “And a natural when it comes to not just nurturing but also propagation.”
“I’m glad you think so.” A warmth, that had nothing to do with the high July sun pouring down or the lust that swarmed in my veins, filled me. Aaron’s compliments occupied a space inside me that nothing else did.
“The globe amaranth you entered at Chelsea last year should have been a gold-medal winner, not a silver.”
“So you’ve said before. Many times.” I nudged him with my shoulder, enjoying the way he chuckled as I did so. “But I don’t mind you saying it again.”
He stretched for another planter, shifting down the bench to reach it. “You could make a career out it, you know.”
“Horticulture? Nah, Father has his heart set on me going to law school.” I shrugged and turned so my bum rested on the compost-strewn wooden table that ran the length of the greenhouse.
“But you don’t want to. You’ve already told me that.” He glanced my way, briefly, then returned his attention to the root ball in his hand.
“That doesn’t appear to matter.” I picked at my thumbnail. “Come on, you know him. What the great Rupert Montague-Fostrop wants, he gets.”
Aaron didn’t answer.
I guessed he didn’t want to bad-mouth his employer. He knew as well as I did that Father was a formidable figure. He always had been, but since Mummy had absconded a few years ago, he’d been bad tempered with his indomitableness—likely it was guilt eating him up from the inside out, the way a rancid tumour would. I was the only one who dared to challenge him, push his buttons, yank his chain, until I got a reaction. But even I wasn’t brave enough to refuse law school. Not when he’d pulled gold-plated strings over late-night Dalmore scotch at his Bond Street gentleman’s club to get my place secured at Durham.
Starting this September.
A bitter taste rose in my mouth, seeping from my tongue and onto my palate and the walls of my cheeks. Durham would mean leaving Juniper Hall; it would be the end of long sultry days dancing amongst the flowers I’d come to adore. And adore them I did. It might seem strange, but to me they had personalities. Some were greedy, always thirsty, some stoic and could cope with barely any attention. Then there were others, like the purple lady slipper orchids that had fat, bulbous chins, and a few had little faces with big eyes and dangling tongues. A selection were as erotic as they were exotic, with rudely large stamen topped with sherbety pollen, or like the canna, lush red folds that opened the way a vagina would show itself when a woman spread her legs for a man.
I crossed my right foot over my left and squeezed my thighs together. Aware of dampness there, between my legs. I was hot, yes—who wouldn’t be in this baking oven? But arousal was growing, too, along with my impatience.
For months my heart had beat only for gorgeous, sexy, caring Aaron, and as my first true love I wanted to give him the honour of seeing my nakedness, my absolute, unhidden, unabashed nakedness for the first time. Like the canna, I wanted to open up and unfurl my petals to allow him into the depths of my core.
But with Durham around the corner, a mere two months away, it was time to get that plan into motion.
“Father said there are mites on the laurels near the pond,” I said.
“What?” Aaron stopped what he was doing and stared at me. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it, I sprayed them last week. They’re getting resistant.”
“He wants you to spray them again. Today.”
“Well yes.” He swiped his palms over each other. Sprinkles of compost landed on the floor. “That would be a good idea.”
“Shall we go now?”
“The sooner the better.” He headed towards the doorway, ducking to avoid a long, grabbing tentacle of the grape vine, which grew in that section.
I grinned and tossed my gloves aside. Exactly what I’d hoped he’d say. Time to get away from the greenhouse and down towards the isolated end of the estate so we could be completely alone and undisturbed.
It only took Aaron a moment to gather up the spray gun.
I hung back from the shed. It had a mean gravel path carved through the grass leading to it, and sharp stones didn’t appeal to my bare soles.
“Let’s set to it,” he said, glancing at the sky as though using the position of the sun to tell the time.
“Yes.” I skipped in front of him, my feet sinking on the soft, perfectly manicured lawn. “Bloody mites, eh.”
“Yeah, bloody mites.” One side of his mouth twitched into a smile. He was watching me again, in my see-through dress.
I knew he liked what he saw so made a show of turning and running my hands over my arse. As I’d suspected, little grains of compost had caught on my palms.
“Oh, damn it,” I said. “My dress is dirty.” I threw him a look over my shoulder.
“Mmm.” He nodded. His eyes still on my bum. “It is.”
“Perhaps I’ll have to take it off, wash it in the pond.”
The other side of his mouth curled into a smile. “Maybe if you’d bothered with underwear this morning that would be an option.”
“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.” I giggled and slipped through an archway in the beech hedge.
He followed
; we were out of view of the house now. Not that there was much activity there. Father was out for the day, so there was only cook, fussing with tonight’s meal, in the kitchen.
Before me was a large pond, not sunk into the ground but surrounded by a stone wall of about two feet. Father called it the Italian garden. A fountain stood in the middle, and two big bowls caught the crystal-clear water as it trickled down. Right now a rainbow-coloured dragonfly was hovering around the base.
“This will do.” I reached for the hem of my dress.
“Claudine…” Aaron stopped. He let the spray gun hang from his index finger, and his lips parted.
“What?”
“I just…”
“What?” I straightened, pulling the hem with me and exposing my naked lower half.
“I don’t know if…”
“If what?”
He tipped his chin, pressed his lips together, and swallowed.
“If you should see me naked or if we should fuck?” I asked and shoved my hips to the right in a jaunty action.
“Jesus Christ.” He pushed his free hand through his hair; it stuck up wildly.
“I’ll take that as you haven’t decided which, shall I?” I pulled the dress up, relishing the moment the material slid over my face and knowing he’d be staring at my perky tits.
When the material fully lifted away, he was standing right in front of me. His wide shoulders made me feel so small, and his head blocked out the light of the sun that was right behind him.
He dropped the spray gun to the ground with a soft whump.
I gasped but tried to hide it. I didn’t want him to think I was immature, that I wasn’t ready for this—that I wasn’t ripe to burst into womanhood.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” he asked, his eyes thin slits.
“I’m not playing,” I said. “Playing is for children… In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all woman.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“I’m legal.”
He clenched his jaw; a small tendon flexed in his right cheek.
“I’m legal and ready and…in love.”
