There. He’s on camera. Sort of. Definitely not what I expected.
He’s wearing nothing but boxers. Just boxers. And when I say he’spacking—I mean,Jesus.
I feel like a creep. A total voyeur. But stalker boy has no idea he’s being watched, and frankly, after everything he’s done to Darcy? A little invasion of privacy feels like poetic justice.
Still, this feels… wrong. Deliciously wrong.
I can’t look away. Those abs deserve their own goddamn billboard. For a second, I consider pulling the footage up on my laptop for a better view.
Don’t judge me.
Then a woman enters frame. Fully dressed—tight skirt, fitted blouse—the kind that screams control. He smooths thefabric, tucks her back in. Tender and intimate, something I wouldn’t expect from him.
Is she his girlfriend?
She’s never shown up before. And now I’m hooked. Halfway down the rabbit hole and no intention of turning back. She could be relevant. Useful.
I scrub the footage back, looking for the moment she arrived.
And what I find?
Let’s just say… I’m in for a show.
A voice in me whispers that watching this makes me no better than him. That I’ve crossed a line. But I stay glued to the screen anyway. Mesmerised.
She enters about an hour earlier, met by his large frame at the door, and when I say they don’t even get chance for a hello. The second the door clicks shut, he’s on her—pinning her to the wall directly in view of the camera.
She’s completely ravenous. Grabbing at him like hunger incarnate, yanking his T-shirt up, exposing the dense muscle coiled beneath. Raw and bunched in a beautifully dangerous sort of way.
And okay, maybe voyeurism isn’t entirely off the table for me.
This is… far too hot for what’s supposed to be surveillance.
Even his jeans don’t stand a chance—clinging just right, the curve of him making my jaw slack.
Focus, Nell.
He’s everywhere—gripping her thighs, hiking her up, pressing full-body against her like he wants to crawl inside her skin. It’s carnal and unapologetic, and for a moment, the camera feels invasive. Or maybe not invasive enough.
Why can’t I find someone who’ll do that to me?
Maybe it’s only the perverts who get good sex like this.
But the heat’s building fast. I shift on the sofa, mouth dry, eyes locked on the screen as he drops to his knees in front of her, hands slipping under her skirt and hiking it to her hips.
Holy shit.
His face stays out of frame—frustratingly so—but I catch more detail this time; dark hair, shaved down the sides, the kind of modern mullet that somehow works on him in a way it shouldn’t.
And then he dives in.
No hesitation.
No warm-up.
He’s devouring her like she’s the last meal he’ll ever get, grip firm on her hips, her back arching under him like a live wire. The sound alone makes me lower the volume—just in case my neighbours are close enough to hear.
Maybe she’ll moan something useful.
