I don’t hate it.
Roman’s home suits him. The furniture wears thesame gleaming leather as he, the precision edges like his sharp jaw.
Stop it.
You’d think I fancy him with the way my brain keeps interjecting my thoughts with his biceps and jaw.
It’s not like I’m taking him because Ilikehim.
He’s just the obvious choice. Supremely local and easily blackmailable.
Pulling myself back to the task at hand, I take out the peppercorn-sized cameras and set about hiding them where I think they are most likely to be beneficial in finding out his passwords.
If I were a long-limbed, muscle-having human, where would I sit to check my fan mail? Because I have zero doubt that his followers ram their praise up his arse on a daily basis.
Low-hanging lights cascade above his kitchen island, right beside the barstools. I picture him having breakfast there, sipping a coffee, and probably eating some kind of Desperate Dan-style meat pie. Horns and all.
Yes. Perfect.
The first camera hides quite well in one of the light shades, almost blending into the dark shade behind it. Being as prepared as a scout, I already installed the app on my phone. With a bit of fiddling and only a smidge of cursing, I get the picture to pop up.
The top of the counter. Riveting.
Spying the large green flourishing plant behind the sofa, near the window, I select it as target number two. Between jutting leaves and a far less stickable surface,I’m sweating by the time I get it positioned to show an over-the-shoulder view of the couch, the TV in the distance behind. The sofa cushion has an optimal TV-facing position, and I hope he’s not some freak of nature who chooses some other arbitrary seat.
Only a maniac would.
With the cameras in place, it’s time to get my butt outta there. Heading for the door, I grab my duck tote and very nearly make it.
So close.
An ajar door steals my focus.
A bed.
Roman’s bed.
Behave yourself, Maggie.
Yet, like devious little souls, my feet carry me toward his inner sanctuary unbidden. Just a peek.
The room is large, stretching back to where his wall meets mine. Finally, I face it, the place where moans are made, slamming into my wall and keeping me awake for so many nights.
It looks kind of… disappointing.
I’d tried very hard not to picture the room on the other side of the wall too thoroughly, but I’d expected it to hold some hedonistic magic. The boring grey walls envelop an equally boring white bed. The floor-to-ceiling mirror by the bed had my eyebrows scraping my hairline. Damn. What a view that must provide. Roman on the floor by the bed, firm hands gripping naked thighs as he lets you watch him devour you.
Right on cue, my pussy thrums.
No.
Absolutely not. Not here.
I should leave. Yet… A nugget of a thought pops into my head, worming its way deep. What if I took a photo on his bed? To send to Eliza. Would she believe that he’s my boyfriend then? There were pictures of him in this very room on his socials. It was something.
Biting my lip, I ignore the massive red warnings that sound in my head. Rummaging in his wardrobe (also perfectly fucking neat-ugh) gifts me with a T-shirt covered in the worn graphic of some old band. Lived in. Perfect.
Stripping off, I pull it over my head and let my hair down, throwing caution to the wind and mussing it up to give that freshly-fucked vibe. It has been so long, I try to remember how tousled bed-head gets. With a wince, I pinch my cheeks to flush them with red, and lie myself back on his bed. I snap off a few images, looking all giggly and coy.
