Page 32 of Watch Me

I’ve surprised even myself with what happened. I know we’re not supposed to touch, but I could not help myself.

I look up at Nick to read his expression, but he’s staring at the ceiling, his whole body collapsed over the back of the chair.

For a moment, nobody speaks.

Then, “Fuck,” Nick groans.

NICK

I WAKE UP in my son’s bed, beside his girlfriend.

Everything is fucked up.

I should leap out of the bed and run upstairs. I should do whatever I can to start repairing all the seriously fucking inappropriate shit that’s happened, but I don’t.

I don’t move.

I look at Zoë's profile in the dim light, marvel at how beautiful she looks, even with her mouth parted and slack in sleep, and pull her closer to me and kiss her temple.

She is beautiful. And sexy. And funny. And wild.

She is perfect, and it’s killing me.

Things went too far, but aftercare is important. I wasn’t going to send her off to bed on her own after we said goodbye to David as though nothing had happened. Even though it felt like piling one sin on after the other, I came downstairs to the bedroom with her to hold her until she fell asleep—and ended up falling asleep myself. Now, in the cold, sober light of early morning, I realize taking her to my bed might have been the smarter choice. This isn’t a scene I would want Tate to come home to.

But still, I don’t get up. I can’t stand to leave her, regardless of how fucking wrong it is. I vowed not to touch her, and now I have my arm around her. I’ll do better tomorrow, but for now, I bury my nose against her neck, breathe in her warm, sleepy smell, and drift off again.

* * *

I dream that I’m alone in the strip club. Zoë is on stage, and I’m the only person in the audience. She leans back and parts her legs and then suddenly I’m on the stage too, lowering myself over her, into her, we’re fucking right there on the stage, and I look around to make sure we’re still alone, and I see a lone figure in the audience. It’s me, watching myself. I don’t know what it means.

* * *

When I wake up again, the room is aglow with white morning light. I’m curled tightly around Zoë, my knees bent into the back of hers, my arm wrapped right over her, my fingers tucked under her side as if I’m holding on to her for dear life. And I’m hard. My erection strains against the fly of my jeans.

It feels so good to lie here with her and to feel this way that I move my hips just a little to feel the brush of her ass against my needy cock.

She sighs and wriggles onto her back, turning her face towards me and blinking green eyes at me, and then she lays her hand on my cheek, lifts her lips to mine, and kisses me.

Her mouth is so soft, so unthinkably soft, that I’m kissing her back before I even know what’s happening—exploring her mouth with an abrupt passion that blindsides me.

She’s only wearing a t-shirt and minuscule underwear, her sinful body under no protection from the thin layer of cotton, and my hands move of their own accord—searching out the hem of her flimsy t-shirt and then roving up underneath, gliding over the silky texture of her skin until I find the soft mounds of her breasts. When my palms clasp over them, the monster of my desire roars to life. My kiss takes on a new intensity, and she matches my fervor, kissing me back with hungry desperation.

I can’t stop thinking about last night. Her breasts in David’s hands as she gyrated on his lap, her eyes on me as she took his cock—and then the forbidden warmth of her mouth as I came inside of it.

That effect that she has on people, to make them completely lose themselves around her, cuts to the heart of my voyeuristic tendencies. It’s what turns me on when I think about her at the club—how the men watching her would do anything to fuck her. How powerless she makes them.

Just as powerless as she makes me.

I’m known as a person with a high amount of self-control. In business, it’s an asset. I’m a ruthless negotiator. For my ex-wife, my self-control signaled a lack of passion, but it was a necessary guard against the perversion and deviance that lay at the edge of my desire, which wasn’t welcome in our bedroom.

But with Zoë, I have no self-control. As soon as I set a limit, it crumbles. With each boundary that gets crossed, the next one appears on the horizon. I have the sensation of marching inexorably forward, crossing one barrier and then the next as I go, and I have no idea where it can lead to.

After my divorce, I serially sought out kinky women—women who would indulge fantasies of mine that Rebecca wouldn’t, believing that all I needed in a partner was someone who would fulfill all of my desires. Yet, along the way, I discovered that there had been another, wonderful side of my relationship with Rebecca—a feeling of love and closeness that was far harder to find with another person than sexual willingness. I had no trouble meeting women who would happily perform the kinky scenes I craved, but never anyone who got under my skin. Never anyone who made me laugh, or even made me think of them when they weren’t around. No one until Zoë.

A small sound escapes her lips between kisses, a moan, and it undoes me. I need her with a blinding fierceness, so when she tugs at the button of my pants, fumbling to undo it, I don’t pull away or protest. I let her unzip my jeans and grasp hold of my cock, and then I roll my hips against her hand to feel her touch all the way down my shaft. That’s the exact moment where every scrap of common sense goes out the window. Every resolve, every shred of resistance. I need her like my life depends on it.

I move away from her only to tug my jeans off, pulling my briefs off with them and then my t-shirt. Then I set myself to undressing her—pulling her t-shirt up over her head and tugging her panties down the hard, muscular lines of her legs.

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