It catches just enough through the gap—her silhouette against the lamp, moving around. Getting ready for bed.
She pulls off her uniform. Down to plain white underwear. Nothing seductive about it.
Doesn't matter. My mouth goes dry watching her move.
She sits on the edge of her bed, shoulders slumping. Exhaustion in every line of her body. Hands come up to her face—she's crying.
The sight does something to my chest. Something uncomfortable I don't want to examine.
What are you hiding, little mouse? What's breaking you from the inside?
Then she lies back.
And her hand slides down her body.
Oh fuck.
I watch her hand disappear between her thighs. Watch her back arch. Watch her free hand come up to her breast.
My hand moves to my belt on instinct.
I can't see details—the angle's wrong, lighting too dim. But I see enough. The arch of her spine. The rhythm of her hips. The way her head tilts back.
I free my cock, already hard, already aching.
Stroke myself while watching her pleasure herself twenty feet and one wall away.
"That's it, milaya," I murmur to the empty room. "Touch yourself. Show me what you do when you think no one's watching."
Her movements get more desperate. I match the rhythm, imagining it's my hand between her thighs. My fingers inside her. My name on her lips.
"Ty moya," I breathe.You're mine."You just don't know it yet."
What is she thinking about? Who's in her head right now?
Is it my face she sees? My hand on her throat? The violence she witnessed?
Is she getting off on fear or me, or both?
My grip tightens, rhythm increasing. Russian falls from my lips mixed with English—possessive claims, filthy demands, promises of what I'll do when I stop watching and start taking.
"Mine. Fucking mine. Every breath, every moan, every dark thought you're too scared to admit."
On screen, her body goes rigid. She's coming. I can tell by how she freezes and then melts into the mattress.
I come with her, jaw clenched, her name torn from my throat. "Valerie. Blyad. Moya."
The orgasm hits hard enough that I have to brace against the desk.
Afterward, I clean up mechanically. Eyes still on the screen.
She's curled on her side now. Small. Vulnerable. One hand tucked under her cheek. The other still between her thighs.
I should feel satisfied.
I feel hungrier.
Because watching isn't enough anymore. Touching her throat isn't enough. These stolen moments through cameras aren't enough.
