I’m not just hungry; I’mstarvingfor her—allof her, not this facsimile assembled through distance.
I want to know all the things you can only know from being close enough to touch. I want to know what her hair smells like, if she gets cold easily, if she hums to herself or sings in the shower, and if her hands are calloused. I want to watch her eyes light up as she laughs, or her pupils dilate with anticipation as she watches me approach. I want to know how fast she reads. I want to know if she’s ticklish and what her weight feels like on my lap. I want to know how she tastes everywhere.
Fuck. I don’t want to fuck my hand anymore. I’m sick of it. I want to wrap my fingers around something larger, press into something softer. I want to feel her pulse flutter under my fingertips as she responds to the sensations I inflict. I want to feel her throat move against my palm, and the vibrations from her voice box as she begs for relief from my cock. I want both of us to watch as I slide so slowly into her body that it does nothing to satisfy the restless, hot need welling between her legs—because I valueaccuracy, and begging for my cock isn’t the same as begging to be fucked…
The cock that’s currently pounding with its own heartbeat, the sensitive tip punching rhythmically at the back of my fly. Fuck, at this rate I’m going to have a zipper imprint on my dick. I move in my seat, shifting the length in my trousers.
Get a hold ofyourself, man.
As hot-blooded as I currently feel, I know she was just as revved up when we parted ways. I could see it in the flush in her cheeks, and the way her eyes clouded with desire. I can’t help wondering with equal parts hope and dread: will she take her vibrator for another spin before turning in for the night?
Unfortunately, she doesn’t get into bed and treat me to a show—though I probably wouldn’t have seen much of it anyway with the camera angled how it is. She gets high and zones out in front of a horror movie, mindlessly scrolling on her phone until she succumbs to the sedative and falls asleep on her couch around 10 PM. After the feed picks up her soft snores among the suspenseful music and intermittent movie soundtrack screams, I move.
Turning off all the security cameras on the block takes no time at all. Shutting off the streetlamps for cover is a bit harder, but I manage it in a matter of a few minutes and keystrokes. No cable tech uniform and hard hat tonight; instead, I pull on a black jumper to more easily blend into the night and shove a balaclava in my back pocket just in case.
Picking the lock to the main door of her building is the most challenging, but my skills are improving.
I let the breezeway door close as softly as possible behind me. The muffled echo of my footsteps is the only sound in the dark hallway. Holding my breath, I reach for the knob of apartment 102, fully expecting to meet resistance.
It’s open.
My brows snap down. She fell asleep without locking the door. Well, I’m not fucking leaving her in an open flat all night—I’ll just have to hope she won’t remember leaving it unlocked when she wakes in the morning.
As I crack the door open, the horror movie music plays to a crescendo. How fitting.
When the noise and motion don’t seem to disturb her, I step inside. The sedative I chose is very effective, but you never know how someone will react to it. It seems to have totally knocked her out.
I stare down at her. She looks so damn soft. Soft hair, soft skin, soft body…
She’s curled on her side on the couch, breathing evenly. Her head is on the arm closest to me, and her hair spills around her, wild and careless. Her legs and stomach are dark silhouettes underneath the blanket, but their rounded shape isunmistakable. In this position, her breasts press together from gravity and the weight of her arm, giving her cleavage a deep line that I wish like hell I could explore. The flimsy strap of her tank top has slipped halfway down her bicep and the neckline is dangerously low, giving me a glimpse of the edge of a dark nipple.
My heart pounds harder in my chest, the noise drowning out all rational thought as I sink to my haunches and bring our faces near enough that we’re breathing the same air.
Some of her hair has fallen across her face, so I reach up and gently brush back the strands, tucking them back behind her ear so I can see her better. I liked the look she wore to dinner, but without makeup she looks more innocent. Peaceful.
The feathering of dark lashes against her skin gives her sleeping face a delicate look, and her smooth cheeks are a touch flushed, perhaps from sleep or the warmth of the room. The slight part of her lips is such a tempting invitation, I can’t look away. Driven by urges I can’t name or explain, I lift my index finger and touch the middle of her bottom lip, pulling it down just a fraction. Seeing the depression of my finger in the pillowy, soft skin makes me bite back a groan.
The memory of these lips against mine plays on a loop as I trace their fullness lightly. Desire flares, pounding a steady, mounting rhythm in my blood. Perhaps… just another taste…
She inhales sharply, and I startle, shifting back. It’s just a small snore, and her eyes remain firmly shut, but it’s enough to remind me of the stakes and snap me out of whatever trance I seem to be in. I rise, and pull the blanket up higher over her sleeping form, hiding her partial nudity like I should have done from the first.
What the hell am I doing? Other than being an absolute pervert on a sleeping woman.
I wish I could chalk it up to being rusty—it’s been too long since I stepped out from behind my screens—but the truth is much more uncomfortable than that, I fear. Because where shame ought to twist and eat away deep in my stomach, there’s only a cool, steely kind of vindication because what I’m doing is wrong, but itfeelsright.
Shit. I’m too close to this, too attracted to her. I’m not being rational. If we decide to take the hit, I’m not going to be able to go through with it. I’m… compromised. Perhaps I should bring Mac in to take over.
At the thought, anger rises in my chest—I don’t want him anywhere near her.
Yeah, I’m definitely compromised. I don’t understand this power she has over me, and it’s starting to make me feel insane. I’m meant to be calm, rational, controlled. The job demands it; my role demands it. But I’ve blown way past irrational, verging on obsessed. It’s my own fault for letting myself get so close.
Once I have her information, I can return to my office to sort it out. Physical distance should help with the emotional distance I clearly need.
Her phone is sitting on the coffee table, so I grab it and type in the passcode I’ve seen her use through the cameras. Moving silently, I bring it with me into her bedroom, cloning it to my own as I go. Her computer’s RGB fan casts light into the room, so when I wake the screen it’s not a sudden shift from darkness to blue light.
I enter her password, confirm her identity using her cell phone, and tap around curiously through her home bar. I recognize most of the icons and feel my brow lift, seeing some of the same programs I use for writing and testing code. Madison Cooper knows what she’s doing, and she’s no slouch with technology. As if she needed to be more perfect.
Odd that she didn’t mention it at dinner, though I suppose I had to drag personal details out of her—
