Watching Her_A Gripping Thriller with a Shocking Twist

by Harlem Dae

“You’re seventeen.”

  “I’m legal.”

  He clenched his jaw; a small tendon flexed in his right cheek.

  “I’m legal and ready and…in love.”

  “In love?” His brow creased.

  “Yes, with you.” I rested my hands on his chest, over the rise of his pecs. “Don’t you know that?”

  “Claudine, but I’m…” His attention left my face and settled on my breasts.

  “Seven years older than me, yes, and…” I shrugged, knowing the action would jostle my tits. “So the hell what?” I summoned all the bravado I could muster. “I want you, and I know you want me, and as two consenting adults we should get on and satisfy this urge.”

  “Bloody hell.” He glanced over my shoulder, in the direction of the house.

  “Hey.” I pressed my palm to his cheek, delighting in the masculine scrape of stubble on my skin, and brought his attention back to me. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But…?”

  “Sh, stop thinking and kiss me.” Without waiting for him to respond, I pushed onto my toes and set my mouth over his.

  I’d practiced for this, longed for it, dreamt of it. And there was something so divinely sexy about me being naked and him fully clothed, outdoors.

  For a moment he was still, frozen, then his mouth became pliant. His tongue peeked out and stroked the tip of mine, and his breaths blew hot and hard on my cheek.

  A wave of power went through me. I had him. I knew I did. My months of girlish dreaming, crushing, whimsical fantasies, were all coming true because I’d made it so.

  And damn it felt good. He felt good. Solid and hard, his undivided attention bestowed on me.

  The callouses on his palms, as he wound them around my waist, spurred me on, and I pressed up close.

  “Claudine,” he whispered. There was tension in his voice, as though an elastic band had coiled around his larynx. And I knew why it was there, that tension—he’d surrendered to me, to his desire, and admitted the love for me that was in his heart.

  I gripped the base of his top, dragged it upwards. We were Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Guinevere, Elizabeth and Darcy all rolled into one soul-wrenching, eternal love story that was bursting its bindings to be told.

  Our kiss broke, but only for a second, then he was devouring me again. A ravenous, urgent kiss that made my head spin and dampness slick between my legs. My heart was beating so fast it tripped up a couple of times. My head spun, the rest of the world ceased to exist—this was better than I’d ever dared hope. The smooth expanse of his chest rubbing up against mine had me dizzier than my earlier twirling. And if it felt this damn good now, how the heck would it feel when we really got down to business and he showed me what it was like when a man entered a woman?

  He dropped to his knees, tugging me with him.

  The cool, malleable grass jabbed at my naked back and behind as he urged me supine. The white glow of the sun filled my vision, and my nipples dragged on his pecs.

  “Open up for me,” he murmured, his kisses wending down my neck. “Let me show you the pleasure of sex.”

  I didn’t answer but did as he’d instructed and spread my legs, the grass alien on my bare buttocks, my right heel catching on a tiny stone.

  He sat back, undid his trousers, but to my disappointment didn’t release the cock I’d longed to feast my eyes on.

  He spotted me watching. “All in good time.” He rested his palms on the insides of my thighs. “We need to get you ready first. Like the petals of a bud easing apart for the first time, we need to go slowly and carefully.”

  I swallowed, a tremble travelling from my throat to my belly. There was no point denying it was my first time. He knew that, so it seemed.

  “Relax,” he whispered, setting a kiss over my small, soft patch of pubic hair, “just relax and trust me.”

  I closed my eyes, scrunching them tight to block out all the sun’s light. There was only Aaron, nothing and no one else. I wanted that darkness as I succumbed to his attentions.

  He urged my legs wider. His shoulders butted against them, then he stroked his tongue through the one place on my body that I’d held sacred for so long.

  I gripped his hair, a full body tremble attacking me, and arched my back. “Aaron!”

  In that moment I knew it would be good, more than good. I’d picked the right man to give the precious gift of my virginity to.

  But as with everything, good moments don’t last, and after that day I never saw Aaron again. He left Juniper Hall at sunset that evening and never returned, taking my heart with him.

  One month later, empty chested and full-bellied, I, too, left Juniper Hall. My nine-month trip to Austria meant I never did get to Durham to start the law degree Father had planned for me.

  Not that I cared about that.

  Chapter One

  Not everyone felt the pull of sex like a tangible thing. As though it was a being, enticing your legs open so that a man could fit snuggly between them and ram his cock inside you.

  But I do.

  Not everyone could understand that need, that tug, that shift of thighs splaying open upon crisp white sheets. Crumpled, used sheets. Dirty sheets. Or against a brick wall in an alleyway for that matter.

  But I can.

  I supposed someone—a psychologist, perhaps—would say I had issues. Ones that went bone-deep from my childhood, loitering inside me, infesting my once-pure soul with debauchery and sin. They might well be right, but to be honest, I didn’t care for their opinions, their reasons, their need to put me in a specific box.

  I had my own box—and it was a cunt, usually wet, always tight. I had a fucking good time playing with it, too.

  The sun was hot on my bare legs. It had reached its zenith, all boiling heat and egg-yolk brightness, the sky surrounding it a lurid blue that hurt the eyeballs. I adjusted my sunglasses—all the better to see you with, my dears—and continued looking around. At the men. So many delicious men. I’d been choosing for a while now, since earlier this morning after I’d dragged my sunbed to an appropriate area poolside, wondering which one to try my luck with, which one to give the come-on to. Some were with their women, here on a holiday of a lifetime, resting after a long year of work where they’d slogged their arses off just for this week or two of sun, sand and possible sex. I said possible, because, you know, being with the same person for a long time meant that kind of behaviour might not be on the cards.

  It’s on mine. The full bloody deck; the jack, the king, and the goddamn joker.

  Hmm. He was there again. The man who’d been in Rome. Paris. Easily recognisable by the very thing he probably thought made him unrecognisable. Absurdly large sunglasses. The cut of his trousers, the type men in the city wore when they were playing at being casual, replacing Savile Row grey and topped with a pastel polo instead of a white shirt.

  He was a gentleman with an edge. Slicked-back dark hair, the wax just enough to sculpt his style without weighting it down. A beard, one of those new trendy ones, longish but trimmed. I estimated him to be about thirty-five—not too young and not too old. Able to give a good fuck but with still so much to learn. I’d contemplated approaching him before but had stopped myself. What would be the fun in that? Shagging one of my father’s drones—for that was what he was, why else would he have travelled so far to watch me?—would only confirm that I’d been lying through my teeth for years.

  Did it matter if my father knew for sure that I was a nymphomaniac?

  ‘The trust fund isn’t for trotting around the globe indulging in sexual fantasies, Claudine. It’s so you can do something with your life, become someone.’

  ‘Someone other than a fuck buddy?’ I smiled at that, enjoying getting on my father’s last nerve and seeing his face crease in disapproval.

  ‘Do you have to be so crass?’

  ‘Always.’

  He sighed. As usual. ‘Start a business. Anything. Something to take your mind off of the filth that fills it.�
��

  ‘Filth? Hardly.’

  ‘Just do it, Claudine. Today.’

  Blooms was set up. What a bloody boring name for a company. Still, it kept Father quiet. Made him think my trips around the world seeking exotic flowers to stock in my future shop in Chelsea were justified. Only, it’d become clear after a few months he’d seen through the ruse. His man there, standing by the bar drinking a juice-based cocktail the colour of the Caribbean sea that stretched into the horizon, had been sent to watch my every move from behind his over-sized sunglasses.

  He’d no doubt be pleased at being paid to jaunt from country to country following me. Or maybe not. Perhaps St Lucia was not his thing.

  I wondered how much trouble he’d gone to in his observations of me. What evidence was he collating for Father? Had he taken notes, photographs? Details of who I’d fucked? Pictures of me with those men, shots of me fucking?

  Curiosity really was a nosy bitch, and I shook my head, as though shaking him from my thoughts, my life. If I pretended the shadow from my past wasn’t there, would that make it so? Would feigning ignorance that he existed mean that I could continue as I had been? And why the hell not? I was having a great time; fucking, larking about at flower markets, no set time to get up in the morning, sleeping only when exhausted and sated with the day. I didn’t have to worry about anyone, only myself. I was number one in my universe.

  What would it be like to put someone else first?

  I rubbed my index finger over my thumb tip, fast, as if rolling a pill. It was something I’d always done, from a child. Whenever I’d missed my mother, or when Father had sent me off to boarding school, the action had snuck up on me.

  The man glanced over, blushing at being caught staring. Unusual for a spy to become flustered. He swirled the ice in his glass, some of the blueness splurging over the rim and trickling between his fingers. Much like my cunt juice would if he’d care to give me a try. He turned away, and if I could see beneath those glasses of his, I imagined his eyes were narrowed, with him working out how he could fix his faux pas.

  You can’t fix what’s broken, as the cracks still remain.

  Ironic, that. Father thought I was broken. And as for the cracks…

  I spread my fingers on the towel, forcing them still, and laughed quietly, suddenly wishing someone was out there—someone who behaved like me, someone for me. But then I dashed that idea away. I wasn’t made to settle down. One cock forever would not a woman sate. It had to be many, otherwise I wasn’t content. I’d been there, tried that, had failed and got the Jimmy Choo’s and the designer Bally’s as a pick-me-up to help me on my way after things had gone sour.

  I guessed his face was sweating as much as his cocktail glass. His armpits, too. Damp, pungent with that scent only men have. I could bury my nose in it right now, his hairs tickling the end, and oh, my cunt would spasm, making me want to come.

  I shifted a little on the sun lounger, knowing, and not caring, that my bikini bottoms were probably wet. A deeper shade of cerise. I sat forward then rose, deciding to forego putting on the top half of my costume. Why cover up when a man needed to see the goods?

  Try before you buy.

  Strolling with languid grace, I reached the spy and stood beside him. He cleared his throat—he was watching me from the corner of his eye—and set his drink on the bar top. Swirled his finger around the glass rim, more for something to do, I thought, than anything else. He hadn’t expected me to join him, that much was obvious.

  “If you could just let him know that I do visit florists while I’m away, that would be most kind of you.” I smiled, even though he didn’t turn his head to face me.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He took a sip of his cocktail and continued to stare straight ahead.

  Ah, it’s like that, is it?

  “I’m sure you don’t.” I nodded at the waiter, who knew my usual, seeing as I’d been staying here for a week.

  He brought it to me, a Tequila Sunrise, and placed it on a coaster that resembled an old-fashioned postcard, which had a painting of Victorians frolicking on the beach in the nude.

  “Thank you, Alberto.”

  I fucked him last week, day two, hour seventeen.

  After taking a sip, I returned my attention to the spy. He seemed to have gone a tad redder in the cheeks since I’d last looked at him.

  “So, how much is he paying you?” I asked.

  “Who?” He finger-stirred his drink again.

  “Oh, come on now. You know very well who I’m referring to.” I did like to play games, but sometimes they bored me. If he could just cut to the chase…

  “Sorry, no clue.”

  He shrugged then reached for a canister that held paper straws that reminded me of the swirly poles outside barber shops. Into the drink it went, the end between his full lips, and it didn’t take long before my mind wandered. His lips might look the same if he were to suck on my clit. They were nice lips, not too fat, not too thin, and the way they hid slightly amongst the beardy hairs made them almost secretive, as though they could speak and indulge in sinful words and deeds.

  “Okay.” I dashed my tongue out to wet my mouth. “We’ll do this your way.” Moving closer, I whispered, “Should I just fuck you, get it over and done with so that you can report back saying his daughter will go with anyone, even you, one of his employees?”

  He coughed, a sharp little sound, clearly startled, and lifted his sunglasses so they sat on top of his head. They balanced precariously on his hair. His eyes, as dull as winter moss, widened.

  Had I read him wrong?

  “Listen,” he said. “Fucking you isn’t in my…diary.”

  I allowed myself a small smile. “Oh.”

  “And even if it was, well, you put it about rather a lot, so…”

  “Soiled goods not your thing?” I tilted my head. “Or does the idea of a woman with experience frighten you?”

  “Look, go back to what you do best, will you?”

  “Ah, so you admit I do it well, yes?”

  He tapped his sunglasses so that they fell down and hid his eyes again, shutting himself off. He moved away, shifting along the bar a bit, his jaw rigid. He was angry, obviously unable to deal with someone who said it like it was where sex was concerned. I could have fun with him, watching him squirm, teaching him to come out of his shell, but honestly, I wasn’t sure if I could be bothered with the challenge. The hassle.

  Alberto stood before me now, a wicked grin filling his face and a twinkle in his eye that showed he was holding back laughter. “Someone has turned you down, si?”

  “It appears so.” I took a slug of Tequila Sunrise, the alcohol swimming through my body and deadening my muscles.

  “Fool, eh?”

  “You tell me, Alberto.”

  “Yes, a big fool. I’ll say that to him, no?”

  “Do whatever you like, darling.”

  I waved absently, as though what Alberto did was of no consequence, but I found myself wanting him to tell Father’s gofer that he was missing out, that he’d get the fuck of his life if only he’d let himself go. A part of me also wanted some leverage, some bargaining chip for when I got back home…eventually.

  ‘Daddy, your man, he has a big cock and knows what to do with it.’

  A wince, a scrunch of the nose. ‘Really, Claudine, I didn’t bring you up this way…’

  Alberto was in conversation with the man. Deep conversation, Alberto all but digging his elbows into the bar, the tanned skin whitening from the force. His companion had finished his drink—only a tiny triangle of fluid remained at the bottom of his glass, paler blue, diluted by melted ice. The base of the glass was wet, a puddle forming on the bar, and a slither of it wandered off towards Alberto’s elbow. It touched him and he jerked, swiping the dampness away. I wished I could hear what they were saying. Unfortunately, their voices were too low.

  The spy gave me a supposed covert glance, and once again he looked as though he could k
ick himself for being caught. Had he been watching me properly for the past few destinations, he’d know I had eyes in the back of my head. That once I had a man in my sights, I tended not to let him go.

  Alberto nodded, gave my tits a quick glance, then backed off to pick up a cocktail shaker. He started making another blue drink, and the man took a deep breath, as though warring with himself.

  Shall I fuck her?

  That wasn’t the question, though. Not now. The question was: Will I fuck him?

  I had no idea. Time would tell.

  Walking away from the bar, my drink in hand, I returned to my lounger. Once settled there, I picked up a book and acted like any other holidaymaker. Here to catch the rays, to relax and unwind. I didn’t care what the spy decided to do—fuck or follow me, it made no odds. But he needed to hurry it along if he wanted to engage with me today. I had the energy, the need for something to happen with someone pretty soon. He might miss the boat.

  Alberto was back talking with him, nodding, shaking his drink then pouring it into a fresh glass. The spy gulped it down in one go and shuddered. Dutch courage, perhaps? Restless, I got up again and, while they weren’t watching, sauntered off into the hotel.

  He’d missed his chance.

  Back in my room, I sat on the balcony with my book propped on my thighs, peering over the top, down at the pool. I wished I didn’t have to peer, that the balcony had railings or maybe even that trendy glass and steel. But it was stonework painted a lurid terracotta and had a flowering bougainvillea creeping over the edge. The spy was on his third drink, taking it slower this time, and it made me wonder what Alberto had said to him. This man was far from the poised pursuer he had been so far, and I giggled that Alberto may have scared him off by telling him what we’d got up to in bed.

  Kinky bugger that Alberto, for a young one. Not that I minded.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to shout, to hang my top half over the balcony, tits round and swollen, and invite the spy up to my room to try out some kink for himself, but I didn’t bother. If he wanted me, he knew where I was. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry, if the man on the next balcony was anything to go by. The bulge in his swim shorts was quite the eye-opener.