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"Fuck," I said, leaning back in the chair, feeling my cock stiffening again at those realizations.
I had to fire her. It was the only rational thing to do. I couldn't keep going on acting as if my employee wasn't whipping her tits out at work for me, that she wasn't flashing me her ass every chance she got, that she wasn't fingering herself because she knew I'd see, and wouldn't be able to control myself, would need to get some relief.
There was no way I could keep someone like that around.
It flipped the power dynamic, for one.
For two, it was a lawsuit waiting to happen if she ever became disgruntled for any reason.
And, for three, and maybe most importantly, I wasn't going to survive watching her in my house knowing I wasn't being a creep. That she wanted me to see.
I wasn't going to be able to do it.
Eight
Wynn
He hadn't called to fire me.
Honestly, I figured he would have sat down later, sometime before bed, reviewed the cameras, seen that I'd been on his laptop, and immediately called to tell me I'd overstepped a line, and canned me.
But the fact that he didn't could only mean one thing.
He knew that I knew about the cameras, and that I'd been using them to turn him on, and he wasn't upset by that fact.
Maybe I should have been off-put by that fact. I mean, most of the time, we were alone in that big, empty house. If he somehow saw my little performances as an invitation for more, he would be able to act on that. My objections would do me no good with no one around to step in if he chose to force himself on me.
I shouldn't have wanted to go back.
The game always ended for me once the voyeur knew I knew I was being watched. The fun had always been in the forbidden-ness of it all. But if the guy knew it wasn't actually forbidden, that, in fact, I was inviting it, it stopped having the same thrill. And, in the worst cases, it made the guys think I actually wanted them.
It was never about them.
I didn't get hot and bothered by the idea of their hands on me, but rather the way they couldn't control themselves because of me.
It was, at its core, a pretty narcissistic kink.
And it made no sense that I wanted to go back now that my boss knew what I was up to.
Maybe a part of me was intrigued by how this could excite me to know he knew, but have him say nothing, act on nothing, just quietly allow himself to be tormented day in and day out, knowing I was in his home, that I was within reach, but that he couldn't touch me.
That added a whole new layer of excitement I hadn't ever really anticipated.
I mean, if he ever tried something, I would be out of there.
But if he wanted to keep playing the game?
I was leaning toward playing as well.
At least for a while, see if it felt as good as it did in my mind.
Besides, the money.
I couldn't forget the money. I had a paid light bill and some new canvases just waiting for paint. Having that security was a big deal to me. I didn't want to screw it up all over a little fetish of mine. But so long as my job was secure, I figured it didn't hurt to keep screwing around a little bit. Especially now that I knew he was watching, and he knew I knew he was watching.
"Wynn, are you even listening?" Perry asked, dragging me out of my swirling thoughts, making guilt immediately overwhelm me. Because, well, no, I hadn't been listening.
In my defense, she'd been going on and on about her douchebag of a boyfriend, and there was only so many times I could say halfway nice, supportive things before I exploded and reminded her that she deserved so much better. Which would only upset her, then me, and cause a whole awful situation we'd been through too many times before.
"I'm sorry. No. I had my mind on work," I admitted, giving her a guilty smile.
"Oh, how is that going?" she asked, cupping her hot chocolate in her mitten-clad hands as we walked down the street, window shopping, occasionally telling each other to "remind me to pick that up for so-and-so for Christmas" even though we both knew we'd forget about whatever item it was before we made it up the next block.
"It's going great, actually. I wouldn't think a job with that much structure would be good for me. You know, like, creatively. But I've been doing a lot of pieces lately."
I was going to go ahead and leave off the fact that every one of those new pieces were borderline erotic in nature, all done through the lens of a voyeur fantasy. Images of women through keyholes or windows. Or that my most recent project was getting the world's most perfect male ass—which happened to belong to Fitzwilliam Buchanan—onto canvas. I'd stylized it a bit, putting the whole image in broad strokes of pinks, purples, yellows, and black, but there was no denying it was my boss's back and ass that was on display.
