But I can't explain to Kazimir what I don't fully understand myself—that I saw her for thirty seconds on a sidewalk in Boston, and something in me recognized something in her.
Or that I haven't been able to think about anything else since. I know this is wrong, that I've crossed lines I can't uncross, and I don't care.
"I'll call you later," I tell him, and I end the call before he can argue.
On the screen, Mara is laughing at something a client said. The sound is silent on the footage, but I can see it in the way her shoulders shake, the way she covers her mouth with her hand.
I want to hear that laugh.
I want to be the one who causes it.
Soon,I tell myself.Soon, I'll approach her. Introduce myself properly. Let her know I'm in New York.
But not yet.
Not until I’m ready.
—
On Saturday night,I finally get what I want.
She doesn’t go out, as I’d thought she might. She stays in, eating takeout Thai food and watching some reality show on her television. She leaves it on some program that I can’t quite make out as she goes to sit at an easel, getting out pencils andpaints and working as she sips wine. I watch her from my couch, sipping vodka and ignoring my steadily burgeoning arousal. And then, just after midnight, she turns off the television, takes her wine glass to the kitchen, and reemerges with a full glass to head to her bedroom.
She drank more than she usually does. Almost a full bottle of wine, if I counted the glasses correctly. I watch her sip from it as she sheds her clothes, and I wonder if she ever thinks someone might be watching. Surely she knows this building is across the street, that anyone could see into her bedroom.
That thought makes my hand tighten around my own glass, my jaw clenching.I’m going to call the realtor in the morning,I think. I’m going to buy the fucking building and evict every tenant, just to make sure no one else can possibly see her the way I am right now, pale and naked, silhouetted in her bedroom window.
My cock throbs. I let out a slow breath, anticipation curling through my veins. Except for my passive orgasm two nights ago, I haven’t come in over a week. Haven’t touched myself intentionally. And it’s driving me fucking insane.
She disappears into the bathroom with her wine glass, and I groan. I get up, my cock tenting the front of my sweatpants, and walk into the kitchen to refill my vodka. I sip it slowly, scrolling through pictures of her as I wait for her to emerge.
It’s an hour before she does. This time, when she sheds her towel, she doesn’t reach for something to put on.
The thrill that runs through me is indescribable, like electricity shocking my every nerve. I get to my feet quickly, walking to the window and standing as near to it as I can as I watch her cross to her bed and lay down on top of it.
Fuck.This is it.
She’s naked, so I should be too. I grab the back of my t-shirt with one hand, pulling it over my head and discarding it on thefloor before shoving down my sweatpants and boxer briefs and stepping out of them. My cock juts out in front of me, rock hard, the tip bumping against the glass and smearing pre-cum there as I stand watching, waiting for her to make the next move.
I want so badly to touch myself. But not until she does.
She lays back against the pillows, her hand brushing over her breasts. I glide my fingers down my abdomen as her hand cups her breast, fingers working her nipple slowly, and I imagine how hard it must be, a tight peak against the soft flesh beneath. I can imagine how sweet she would taste in my mouth, how warm.
I glide my fingers along the ridges of my abs as her hand works its way lower, my cock throbbing, the tip nearly touching my navel now with anticipation. It takes every shred of self-control I have not to reach for it, not to give myself the pleasure I’m so desperate for.
When her hand reaches between her thighs I finally, finally wrap my hand around myself for the first time in days, and the sensation of skin-on-skin is so intense that I let out a sharp hiss through my teeth.
Fuck. I watch as her head arches back, the long line of her neck graceful against the curve of her pillow, her back bowing as her hand moves between her perfect thighs. I want to be the one there instead, for it to be my hand, my mouth, my cock giving her pleasure. I want all her pleasure to come only from me, to be the one who owns it, controls it, who grants her orgasms and wrings them from her until she’s pleading for no more.
My hand moves up and down my length in long, slow strokes, trying to match my pace to what I can see of her movements. I hiss again when my palm slides over the tip, my shaft slick with pre-cum that’s now flowing steadily. My balls are tight and aching, my entire body desperate for release, but I hold back?—
—and nearly lose it when I see her reach into a drawer next to her bed and pull something out.
It must be a toy. I groan aloud, a curse in Russian slipping out from between my teeth as I watch her slip the toy between her thighs, spreading them wider. It’s something for penetration, and I grip my shaft tight at the base, squeezing to keep myself from coming before I’m ready. Her back arches again, her body taut with pleasure, and I want her so badly that I feel like I’m going mad with need.
When I feel my orgasm ease back, I start to stroke again, moving my hand in time with the strokes of her toy in and out of her pussy. I can imagine how she would feel—wet, tight, hot… perfect, and my jaw tightens as I watch. The sight of her fucking herself is intoxicating, but I don’t want any other cock in her but mine, not even a faux one. Nothing should fill her but me.
I want to be everything.
