I had to get upstairs before she came back out of the den. I had to clean myself up. And get myself together.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I never reacted like that to a woman.
And I was damn sure never a fucking creep, jerking off to a woman who didn't know I was watching her.
I needed to get a hold of myself.
I had to stop watching Wynn.
Six
Wynn
It was an interesting turn of events to find myself watching him.
See, I'd heard him going upstairs, his steps hard and purposeful.
Like he hadn't seen me.
More than a little disappointed, I'd gotten off the couch to go back into the office.
To snoop.
I didn't even want to admit it to myself, but I wanted to snoop to see if he'd somehow missed me.
I hadn't exactly been quiet, for God's sake. I'd practically screamed out my orgasm, the one that was made so intense at the thought of him watching me, of his cock hardening in his pants because of me—aching and intolerable.
Moving behind his desk, I found his laptop still open.
And the image of the now-empty den on the screen.
Oh, he'd watched me alright.
And judging by the turned over tissue box on the desk, he'd done more than just felt achy and needy.
He'd jerked off while watching me please myself.
The jolt of pleasure was immediate and undeniable.
What I did next, though, was not.
I liked to be watched.
I didn't like to do the watching.
Yet there was no way I could deny that my hand slid to his laptop, switching through the cameras in his bedroom, then his bath.
And that was where I found him, standing with a confused and hard look on his face as he worked the knot off of his tie, tossing it into the hamper. Next, his fingers went to his shirt.
God, those fingers.
I'd thought about them rolling over my clit, sliding inside my body, as I'd touched myself in the den.
He had nice hands.
It wasn't something I usually noticed about a man, but I'd noted it several times when I was looking at him.
Big, masculine hands with neat fingernails. The perfect hands for finger-fucking a woman.
I'd never seen the man in anything but his perfectly tailored suits. Once, I thought I caught the flash of him coming back from the gym in basketball pants and a tee, but I couldn't say for sure.
I had no idea what was underneath.
Even if I had thought about it, I probably wouldn't have done him justice.
See, when you think of descriptions like "swimmer's body," you inevitably think thin of waist, wide of shoulder, and lean.
But sometimes you forgot that it took a lot of strength to swim well.
I certainly had forgotten that.
Because under Fitzwilliam Buchanan's suit was a whole lot of strength.
The man could have invented the term "washboard abs." None of the muscles were too bulky, but you could see the outline of a perfect eight-pack. And the dips. Good God, the man had those deep lower hip indentations that made your eyes want to follow them down, see where they led.
My eyes?
They were greedy.
So when his fingers undid his pants and boxer briefs, my gaze slid down the indented muscles of his Adonis Belt, finding the thick length of him.
That was another department my imagination wouldn't have done him justice in.
Below his cock were thick, strong thighs, the ones that wouldn't get tired if you wanted to go all night long. The arms, too, were strong and corded, and could more than readily handle as many push-ups as necessary, if you get what I'm saying.
The man was the definition of perfect.
Enough so that I was starting to think maybe it wouldn't hurt me to learn to like plain rice and bland, boring chicken a couple nights a week.
It did the body good.
He was proof of that.
"Oh, damn," I murmured to myself as he turned away from the camera, giving me a view not only of his wide, strong back, but the perfect, rounded, muscular ass of his too.
My desire, so recently sated by the orgasm in the den, hummed to life again as I watched Fitzwilliam Buchanan walk across his bathroom and into his shower where the water burst to life.
I knew his water.
It took a while to get hot. Long pipes for a massive house and all that.
So I knew it was bracingly cold as he stepped under the spray and let it wash over his body.
A thrill moved through me as I realized he wanted the cold shower. Because he'd been so worked up from watching me in the den that he'd jerked off and came all over himself like it was his first time.
He leaned forward, resting his forearm on the marble wall, then his forehead on his arm, just letting the cold water cascade over his body.
I thought I'd been drunk on power in the past, completely shit-faced by the way I could have a man's gaze guiltily watch me when he thought I didn't know, but knowing I brought a man like Fitzwilliam Buchanan to this place of complete overwhelm, this was a drug of a whole new caliber.