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Fascination.
Lust.
He should move. He told himself to move as he clenched his fists and pressed them into the wall beside the small attic window.
He was going to move.
In just a minute.
Just as soon as he came in his jeans from the sight that met his bemused eyes.
It wasn’t his fault.
He was excusing himself and he damned well knew it. He was just too … shell-shocked. Yeah, that was the word. Too shell-shocked to move a single muscle and drag himself away from the little window with a bird’s-eye view into the neighbors’ secluded backyard.
Pervert! he railed at himself.
That didn’t stop him. He was transfixed. His cock was in hell. He was practically drooling on his dusty attic floor as he watched shy little priss, Miss Sarah Fox, naked as God created her.
Glistening beneath the sun, slender hands moving.
He
closed his eyes. Swallowed tightly. She thought she was in the privacy of her own home. She thought that the sheltering fence she’d paid a fucking fortune to have built around her pool was tall enough to protect her. That no one could see her. That she was safe.
He opened his eyes.
He felt sweat bead on his forehead and roll down his temple as she smoothed her hands over her breasts. Cupped them. Rolled her nipples.
“Christ,” he wheezed. There was a flash of gold.
Holy hell.
He felt his cock get impossibly thicker. Felt his balls tighten. His balls? Damn. He could barely breathe.
Prissy Miss Fox had nipple rings. Fucking nipple rings. Beneath those staid blouses and too-long damned skirts she wore, she was wearing fucking nipple rings?
His fists tightened as he pressed them into the window frame. He blinked back sweat, and he couldn’t drag his eyes away from her.
Long, nut-brown, riotously curly hair fanned around her. A hell of a lot longer than he had imagined it was. And she was curved. Curved where a woman should be curved.
And her fingers.
He tried to swallow. Her fingers were pulling at the little gold piercings in her nipples, and her expression was filled with pleasure.
Her entire body was sheened with oil. He forced his eyes from her nipples. Down.
“God have mercy.” He was breathing fast, hard.
Fine. He was a fucking pervert. He unzipped his jeans, dragged free his dick, and curled his fingers around the shaft, palming it, stroking it.
Because she was moving again. The fingers of one hand were trailing down her stomach, to her bare, waxed, glistening …
He leaned his forehead against the little circular window, stared, fought to breathe. There was gold there, too. Just a flash. Just enough to assure his very trained eye that Sarah Fox had a piercing at the hood of her clitoris.
And she was playing with it. Pulling at it. Stroking her clit with glistening fingers.
She didn’t writhe. She wasn’t arching or giving him a show. She was a woman, lost in her own fantasy, her own touch. Her teeth clenched her lower lip, perspiration beaded her skin. Oil shimmered on it. And she was stroking herself. Slowly. Enjoying it. A woman who liked to be teased. Who liked the buildup. A slow hand.
