The Varlet and the Voyeur

  My mouth fell slowly open. This definitely wasn’t what I’d been expecting, though really, I don’t know what I’d expected. “Oh.”

  “I don’t condemn anyone who does look at it, but I simply choose not to.”

  “That’s sort of”—I struggled for the right words for several seconds, finally deciding on—“noble.”

  “For a pervert.”

  I swiped him on the shoulder. “Seriously! Stop calling yourself that! And don’t you dare listen to what those vapid gossip journalists write. You’re one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.”

  His eyes seemed to dim at my compliment. “You think so?”

  “Of course I do. You’ve been an absolute gentleman to me, even if you do like to spend your personal time browsing women’s lingerie,” I teased.

  That got a surprised, deep chuckle out of him, and it warmed the heart I hadn’t even realized needed warmth. “By the way,” I went on. “You do realize there are ethical porn sites out there, right?”

  Will’s brow furrowed. “Ethical porn?”

  I nodded. “Yes, that’s what I try to watch, though I admit not as often as I should. It takes a little bit of research to find it, but it’s definitely available. There are independent performers who actually enjoy what they do. There are also couples who like to experiment and upload their videos to the internet. They liked to be watched.”

  He looked genuinely perplexed now. “I…” he trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck. “I honestly feel stupid that I didn’t know that.”

  I waved him away. “Don’t feel stupid. Not many people know about it. It’s one of those things you have to actively go out and search for, sort of like good indie music.” I chuckled. “You also typically have to pay for it, because when it’s free somebody’s usually being exploited, so I don’t mind paying.”

  “You watch it?” His voice sounded somehow strained, but his gaze was steady.

  I grinned. “Sure. Like I said, I’m trying more and more to only watch the independent stuff. I usually find some good videos beforehand, then when the mood takes me, I have a whole playlist ready.”

  “When the mood takes you,” Will repeated my words back at me. He got a far-off look in his eye, and I wondered if he was uncomfortable talking about porn, which, given the fact I’d sort of sprung this conversation on him, was probably true. I needed to start vetting my topics before I blurted them out. Unfortunately, my curiosity often got the better of me.

  Getting the sense that Will didn’t really want to discuss this anymore, I stood. “Well, I should get back to bed. I hope your dad feels better soon.”

  Before he had a chance to reply, I was inside my room. I crawled into bed and yanked the covers around me tight, but I was too tense to go back to sleep. My realization that I liked Will in a non-platonic, romantic, hearts and flowers sort of way had me feeling all kinds of conflicted.

  This Saturday I had to go on that double date and I really, really didn’t want to. Plus, I was traveling to Australia with him next week. I’d be taking myself and all my gushy, girl feelings on a plane to another continent. There’d be no classes to distract me, no Rocky to play with, no interactions at the vet clinic. Just Will to fixate on.

  Will with his watchful eyes and understated charm.

  Will with his kind gestures and quiet strength.

  Will with his handsome smile and perfect body.

  I couldn’t wait, but I was also dreading it because we’d be spending every day together, which was going to be a torturous lesson in self-restraint. But I was determined not to embarrass myself, which meant I was doomed to fail.

  But what if . . .

  I blinked into the darkness, an idea forming. A brilliant, brilliant idea.

  What if I just decided not to like him? He certainly didn’t like me that way. What if I decided that I wouldn’t allow myself to go down that road? What if I made a sharp left turn and took my crazy brain train down a different track?

  I get to decide.

  Could it be that easy? Could I just decide that I would only have friendly feelings for him? Did feelings work that way?

  “Huh,” I said to the dark, and then whispered, “My friend and roomie, William Moore, and nothing more.”

  The idea didn’t feel precisely right, but it did feel inspired, and it did feel safe. I figured the key to my success was to act indifferent to him as a man. In fact, I would pretend he wasn’t a man. I would pretend he was a woman.

  “That might work!”

  Rocky stirred and I winced, realizing I’d spoken much louder than I’d intended. Snuggling deep under my covers, I chanted to myself, “My female friend and roomie, William Moore, and nothing more.”

  Maybe if I repeated it enough, I would believe it.

  Ten

  @Socialmedialite to @WillthebrickhouseMoore: Hey handsome! Have fun on your date tonight and tell @BroderickAdams I say hi.

  @WillthebrickhouseMoore to @Socialmedialite: Hi, @BroderickAdams. There, done.

  @Socialmedialite to @WillthebrickhouseMoore: You’re worse than @RonanFitz ????

  WILL

  Nice.

  Josey thought I was nice.

  She’d said so during our awkward late-night conversation, where she suspected I was searching for couples. I was actually Skyping with my brother, but then she stumbled upon the embarrassing fact that I’d visited a lingerie site.

  I would never forget to delete my history again.

  Glancing at myself in the full-length mirror, I inspected the black shirt I was wearing and the black pants. We—both Josey and I—were getting ready for the double date, and apparently, I’d unconsciously dressed myself as a villain, or a funeral attendee.

  Grunting, I unbuttoned the black and searched for something else, finally settling on a dark purple shirt. Annie told me to “dress sharp” but to not wear a tie.

  Since I hated ties, that was good news. So why was I in a terrible mood?

  You’re one of the nicest men I’ve ever met.

  I glared at my reflection, Josey’s words sounding more dismissive the more they repeated in my head. I’d been called nice before and it never bothered me. I’d always prided myself on being a decent and good person. An honorable person.

  But . . . now? Nice? Why did it bother me so much?

  And her suggestions about ethical porn, watching willing couples online. If anything, that irked me even more than her “nice” comment. I only knew about the voyeur-couple matching website because of the O’Farrells.

  How did she know about such things? Did she want me watching other people online? Would it bother her?

  Obviously not, since she suggested it.

  I scowled, disliking the fact that she watched “ethical porn,” and then wondering how often she watched it, and then deciding I couldn’t dislike it completely if it was the inspiration for her shower performances, and then growing irritated with myself for even having these thoughts.

  It’s none of your damn business what she does or with whom.

  My scowl deepened.

  A knock sounded on my door just before it flew open. I turned towards it, holding the newly selected purple shirt in one hand.

  Unsurprisingly, Josey was already speaking before the door was completely open, “I can’t decide what to wear, and since you know more about people than I do—and dates, and expectations, and being a normal human—I thought you could help me pick which of these to wear.”

  I gaped at her for a split second as she stared at me. Her eyes focused on my face were wide and worried, and she held two pieces of fabric on hangers in front of her. But behind the ineffectual wall of skimpy clothes, I could see she was wearing a strapless wine-colored bra and matching underwear. And that’s it.

  I struggled. “Uh—”

  “I know! Right?” She glanced down at the two hangers, her voice full of despair. “I don’t have anything to wear to a club. All my dresses are florals, except these two. Unless this club is an Easter
tea with the Queen, I can’t wear anything else in my closet. This one”—she held up a black scrap of fabric—“was purchased for a pimps and hookers party, and this one” —she held up a dark green scrap of fabric—“was purchased for a sexy superheroes party, but I didn’t know it was superheroes, so I was Poison Ivy, and turned out to be the only villain in attendance. The worst!”

  The rising panic and unsteadiness of her voice had me unthinkingly tossing the shirt to my bed and crossing to her. Not considering much of anything other than wanting to provide comfort, I placed my hands on her shoulders and brought her to my chest, realizing a half second too late that I was shirtless.

  Josey let her hands drop and the length of her virtually bare body connected with mine as she allowed herself to be held. Her skin was smooth, hot everywhere we touched, the tops of her full breasts pressing completely against my chest with every frustrated breath she took.

  She felt amazing.

  Crap.

  She shifted, her arms coming around my waist, the delectable friction of her skin sending a shockwave down my spine. Stifling a groan, I struggled to hold on to my original thread of altruism. Comfort her.

  Comfort. Her.

  COMFORT HER RIGHT FUCKING NOW!

  “It’ll be fine,” I said, lowering my voice and saying each word very, very carefully. I imagined it would probably be appropriate to stroke her soothingly, or rub a circle on her back. But at the same time, it was absolutely not appropriate. So I didn’t.

  “You sound like a robot.” She huffed a laugh, her hot breath teasing across my skin. The little laugh soon became a giggle, and she gave me a squeeze. “You’re terrible at this. Hugging you is like hugging a warm marble statue. You’re so stiff and solid.”

  I shouldn’t even be hugging her.

  We weren’t friends.

  She was my employee.

  There were rules—spoken or unspoken—and this was crossing a line.

  But I didn’t let her go.

  What am I doing?

  Instead, I swallowed, and breathed out slowly, forcing my body to relax. “Sorry. I . . . don’t have a lot of experience with this.”

  Josey leaned away, lifting her chin to meet my eyes, but kept her arms around my torso. “You don’t have a lot of experience with what?”

  I couldn’t speak.

  Firstly, she smelled good. Really good. Like flowers.

  Secondly, her eyelids were hooded as she peered at me, and the way she’d lifted her face meant that her wide, wine painted mouth was just inches from mine.

  When I said nothing, her eyes widened. She stepped away, guessing, “Hugging? You don’t have a lot of experience with hugging?”

  I nodded, missing the feel of her immediately. She was right, I was stiff and solid. I had to be. It was my job.

  She was not.

  She was soft. Everywhere. Her arms, belly, sides, back, hips, the tops of her breasts, everywhere we’d touched was yielding and rounded. Fragments of thoughts, of her softness beneath me, of her stretching and arching as I tasted and touched the heat of her skin—

  Crap.

  Josey’s gaze turned sympathetic, her smile sad. “William Moore, do you need a hug?”

  I shook my head, answering with a rough, “Nope.”

  God. The last thing I needed right now was another hug from Josey. If she hugged me again, I was definitely going to stroke her back and sides. I was definitely going to take advantage of her bare skin. And I was most definitely going to kiss her.

  Or try to.

  And that would definitely be against the rules.

  It couldn’t happen. When she didn’t barge into my room barely dressed, and when she didn’t take masturbatory showers, she was the perfect roommate.

  If I kissed her, she might leave, and I wouldn’t blame her. It was a boundary that didn’t need to be explicitly stated. You don’t kiss your employees. You don’t.

  I wouldn’t.

  But I wanted to.

  But I also didn’t want her to leave.

  I need her.

  This thought, plus how she was now regarding me with blatant pity, was enough to sober me from my covetous haze.

  I did not need her soft, hot body. I did not need to kiss her big, luscious lips. I did not need to feel her wet tongue sliding over my skin. I wanted it—a lot—but I didn’t need it.

  I needed her. I needed sunny, funny Josey. I needed her to stay. And I needed to behave in a manner that was appropriate for and commensurate to a boss-employee relationship.

  So . . . NO KISSING.

  She moved, like she was going to hug me again, and I stepped to the side and out of her reach.

  “We’ll be late,” I reminded stiffly.

  “You need a hug.” She followed me, her gaze persistently compassionate, her arms outstretched, a hanger in each hand.

  I picked up my shirt and quickly pulled it on as she chased me around my room.

  “Come on, Will. It’s hug time.”

  “No. No, it’s not.” For some reason I was now laughing. My best guess was because I was frustrated.

  Thankfully, after two circuits around the room, she stopped and heaved a sigh. “Fine. But I’ll get you later. You can’t run from my hugs forever.”

  Rationally, I knew I should now reprimand her. I should tell her that she shouldn’t come into my room mostly naked. It was inappropriate, and boundaries must be respected.

  I couldn’t.

  I physically could not force my mouth to form the words. Just the thought of rebuking Josey made something in me crumple and shrink and recoil.

  I couldn’t do it, but it was definitely time for a subject change.

  Swallowing around a thick knot, I hastily buttoned my shirt, and lifted my chin towards her hangers. “Wear the green one.” It brings out your eyes.

  My distraction technique worked and her attention immediately shifted to the dress I’d indicated. “This one?” She held it up to her body and crossed over to the mirror, giving me an unobstructed view of her generous ass.

  I couldn’t look away, but I did successfully smother another moan.

  I want to touch it.

  Nope.

  I want to bite it.

  Nope.

  I want to bend her over and—

  Nope. Nope. Nope.

  Josey spun around, and my eyes darted to her face, a rush of guilt burning my ears. Luckily, she wasn’t looking at me.

  “Okay. Yes. The green one. I can do this. Maybe I have some green eyeshadow someplace,” she muttered as she darted from the room.

  Do not watch her walk away.

  I stood in place, hesitating for only a single second, my baser instincts and desires eventually winning the war against prudence and integrity. I crossed to the door just in time to catch one more glimpse of her bottom as she jogged down the hall.

  When she was gone, I released a gust of air, my lungs tight.

  Unfortunately, my pants were also now tight.

  Crap.

  No. Not “crap.”

  Fuck.

  We were late.

  It couldn’t be helped. Josey blamed herself and I did not correct her. But I did make a point of assuring her it was no big deal.

  The truth was, I’d had to beat off. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t walk around on a date with a stranger while sporting persistent wood for another woman. Worse, I couldn’t finish until I’d allowed those earlier fragments of thoughts to arrange themselves into a solid fantasy: Josey, me, undressing, ripped dress, shower, wet, hot, naked.

  Worse still, as soon as Josey appeared from her room, dressed in her ridiculously tight, strapless, and short green dress, I knew I’d be battling a boner all night. Especially since I’d allowed that fantasy to solidify, and that fantasy involved the dress she was currently wearing.

  The last time I was like this was in college and I’d been celibate for three years. Frustration and need had built up, and I’d been desperate for relief. It hadn’t bee
n attributed to one woman, but rather a parade of co-eds I’d placed firmly out of my reach.

  Now I knew there were only two real, lasting cures: voyeurism or getting smashing drunk. The former was no longer an option.

  I usually didn’t drink at all, and hadn’t been smashing drunk since college, but I decided I’d need to make an exception tonight. Something had to give.

  I formed a plan.

  I’d drink tonight during the double date—not a lot—just enough to get out of my head and relax. But when we made it safely back to the apartment, I’d get smashing drunk. I’d be away from my employee, alone in my room, and free to indulge in oblivion without worrying about what I might say or do—or confess—around my employee.

  We were not friends.

  I don’t want to be her friend.

  I quickly pushed that thought away, reminding myself—for the millionth time—Josey was my employee. I would never cross that line. Nothing could or would ever happen.

  Do you want something to happen?

  Ignoring that minefield of a question, I focused on getting through the evening.

  We arranged to meet the musician and her producer at a club downtown called Diamond, or Crystal, or something like that. I was a little too distracted by Josey’s dark lipstick to remember.

  Damn it.

  Employee.

  I gave our names at the door and we were escorted into the club. I placed a hand on Josey’s back, and I only did this because the loud music, dark lights, and general chaos would make it easy for us to lose each other in the crowd. That was the only reason, and I definitely did not notice how good she felt under my palm.

  We were taken away from the main dance floor and up a flight of stairs, leading to an area blocked off by a sheer curtain. A big guy—not as big as me, but big nevertheless—stood poised at the entrance and his eyes widened as we came into view. I recognized that look. He knew who I was. He was also sizing me up.

  Guys, all guys, do this to big guys. But other big guys are more blatant about it. I grimaced, hoping we weren’t going to have a problem.

  Josey turned a nervous smile on me, oblivious to the undercurrents of the situation. “Gosh, this place is posh, isn’t it? Look at those curtains. I think that’s silk, hand-painted by the looks of it. There must be forty yards of it. And this staircase must be an original feature of the building. And that bar”—she tilted her chin towards a long bar at the far side of the room—“looks like something that belongs in a grand hotel.”