Page 28 of Watch Me

Voyeurism, like domination, takes its pleasure in power.

“It did,” I counter. I rise from the couch and approach her chair, placing both hands on the armrests and leaning forward until I can smell the shampoo fragrance of her hair and the coconut-scented body spray she wears when she’s working. “And you liked it, didn’t you? Knowing that I was watching you. Knowing that the sight of your sweet, tight little pussy got me so hot, it took everything in me not to pin you down and take you right there.”

“Yes, okay,” she answers in a small, brave voice. “I liked it.”

I move in until my mouth is almost against her ear. “Little girl, you can’t imagine how much I want to be deep inside of you. How much I crave you. But let’s get super clear on something. I cannot touch you. I will never touch you again. You fucked my son, and you are off limits to me, do you understand?”

“Yes,” she answers in the same small voice. A tone laced with subservience and willingness. A tone to get my dick hard.

“Certain lines have already been crossed, though. It’s too late to go back. But if you want to play little games, they’re going to be on my terms. Now, you tell me right now if that’s what you want to do, and if not, that’s fine. You go down to your room, and we put all this behind us. We never talk about it again. But let’s be very clear that you don’t make the rules. I do.”

There’s a split-second pause before she speaks, a fraction of a second that feels like hours while I wait to hear her response to my proposition.

“I do want to play little games,” she answers finally. “Sir.”

Since puberty, my sexuality has existed within me as a kind of beast or demon I can barely control. Always threatening to become unleashed. A growl of satisfaction rises up when Zoë calls me Sir, the implication of her willingness a kind of signature on a pact between us. She’ll play. And if I make the rules, then maybe I can control this thing between us. Find ways not to cross the line… too far.

“Good.” I lift my hands off the chair and straighten up, my mind already racing with possibilities. “I’m glad we cleared that up. Now be a good girl and go to bed, and do not fucking disturb my sleep tonight.”

There’s disappointment in her eyes as I move away from her—a thwarted longing I know I’m not imagining. But re-establishing the balance of power is satisfaction enough for the night. Exerting control will be all the more gratifying, knowing that I will use this time to think of ways to fulfill my needs within set boundaries.

After all, creativity has never been a problem for me.

Only restraint.

ZOË

NICK RIVERA IS a man of contrasts.

When he smiles, he has the biggest, most open-hearted smile I’ve ever seen. When I make him laugh, it’s the greatest feeling in the world. When his guard is down, Nick is warm, authentic, and joyful.

But those are rare moments. Most of the time, Nick Rivera is serious, reserved, and downright intimidating. I can see why he’s so successful in business—he has the air of someone who always gets his way.

Like last night. When he whispered in my ear that he made the rules and then turned and walked away, Nick left me breathless, my mind spinning about the promise lingering between us—the “little games” we might play.

My mind is still spinning the next day when I see him in the kitchen. I’m fresh from dance class, my leotard still on under my shirt, my hair in its tight, perfect bun, and no makeup on. I wish I’d had a chance to freshen up because Nick looks good. Like, really, really good. Jeans, bare feet, white t-shirt that stretches across wide shoulders, broad chest, bulky arms. That thick hair and chiseled jaw.

I instantly picture him lifting me up onto the counter, letting me wrap my legs around him, the way the muscles in his back would bunch and ripple as he moved against me. The thought is chased by the ache in my heart I’ve been feeling all day, whenever I remember his words.

I will never touch you again.

“Hey,” I say casually.

His brown eyes catch mine, and he smiles—not the show-stopping grin that sets my heart on fire, but a polite smile.

“Hi.”

I walk past him to the fridge, which is all it takes to short-circuit my senses. I get a whiff of his warm, irresistible Nick smell, and it envelops me in a kind of disorienting euphoria. I can’t resist inhaling it before I open the fridge door and pull out my protein shake.

“You around for dinner tonight?” he asks. Cool and casual like nothing inappropriate has passed between us. Just a dad asking his kid’s friend if she’s staying for dinner.

Cringe.

“Uh, yeah,” I reply. The idea that Nick is inviting me to have dinner with him fills me with a vibrant, hopeful longing. “I’m not working tonight.”

“Great. I’m grilling steaks. My friend David will be joining us. You’ll love him.”

My heart withers to nothing in my chest and drops into my stomach in ashes. “Great,” I echo in a high, fake lilt.

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