Page 63 of Damsel in Disguise

She’s watching me from the shadows.

The most interesting part is that I can’t see her. Not a silhouette, not a shift in the dark—nothing. Yet I know she’s there, just out of sight. And that’s exactly what makes this so intoxicating.

Ariella might believe she’s clever enough to breach my security systems. That she slipped through unseen and untouched.

The truth is far simpler—I let her in. If I wanted to, I could’ve intercepted her the moment she crossed the threshold and ended this little game before it even began.

But where’s the fun in that?

I wanted to see how far her obsession would go if I loosened the leash. I wanted to watch her test the boundaries she thinks she’s clever enough to outmaneuver. I wanted to measure the depth of her audacity.

She’s a bird freshly lured into its cage. And I’m the one who fucking built it.

The fact that she blends so seamlessly into the shadows—or worse, that she still naïvely believes I don’t know it’s her—sends a sharp, electric rush through my bloodstream.

Being watched like this doesn’t dull my senses. It refines them—every nerve more aware, more attuned with the amusement of being watched.

It’s strangely intoxicating to know my student is watching me stripped bare beneath the cascade of water. My hand wraps firmly around my cock, grip unhurried, as the water pounds against my back.

I don’t rush it. I just let her watch.

Don’t mistake this for me chasing some cheap thrill of secrecy or extramarital indulgence. I’d never stoop that low.

There’s nothing illicit about this—not when the woman occupying my house under the title of wife is nothing more than a calculated placement by the Triarch Dominion as a high-class surveillance device with a fake wedding ring.

They understood exactly what I am beneath the surface—a leashed predator, tolerated only so long as I remain useful.

So yes—Delilah Hertley may be my wife on paper, but not in any meaningful sense of marriage.

Hell, the part that curdles something in my gut is that I’m legally bound to something that only mimics a human being. She isn’t one.

She’s a Synthète.

And it doesn’t end there. I’m expected to touch her. To perform the rituals of intimacy as if it’s nothing more than another obligation. To press my lips against synthetic skin and pretend it carries a soul.

I’m required to fuck an abomination and call it matrimony.

A flicker of something darker threads through the controlled rhythm of my hand. Heat coils low in my abdomen, but it’s not just physical—it’s sharpened by the awareness behind the glass. By the silent presence drinking in my every movement.

So don’t blame me if I enjoy being watched by an actual human while I get myself off.

A contented sigh leaves me. I wrap my hand tighter around my shaft and leisurely drag my palm upward, then back down in a measured glide. I continue the rhythm, steady and controlled.

It feels perversely satisfying to have a real human audience to witness your release—to know someone with warm blood and curious eyes is absorbing every movement.

I increase my pace gradually, strokes turning firmer, faster. Skin slides against skin in wet, slick sounds that echo faintly beneath the rush of water. The noise is obscene, intimate, and so unapologetically good.

My head falls back as a low and unrestrained groan rips out of me. I wonder if her breath caught hearing that. If her pupils dilated in the dark.

For now, I can only imagine her hazel eyes looking up at me, and her hand stroking my cock.

Better yet, me fucking her mouth. The thought alone makes my cock twitch in my hand mid-stroking

Heat gathers at the base of my spine. The beating organ in my chest spikes up. My balls draw tight and heavy, tingling with the warning tremor of release building fast and merciless.

I’m close.

My hand drives harder and faster—each stroke rougher than the last, hips subtly thrusting into my grip. A flash of fucking her throat intrudes into my mind again. Another groan tears out of my throat, louder this time, and I don’t attempt to mute it.