by Daya Daniels
A NOVELETTE
FOR HER
BY: DAYA DANIELS
CONTENTS
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
About the Author
Copyright@ 2017 by Daya Daniels
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any way, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any other means without the explicit written permission of the author, except for brief quotations of the book when writing a spectacular review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and even facts are the product of the author’s imagination. Wait a minute...especially facts. Any resemblance to actual people – alive, dead, or someplace in between, is completely by chance and likely in your head.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. Holy hell, this is important. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Let’s not forget! All song titles in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who has encouraged my writing.
To my wonderful husband, I love you. Your support is priceless.
Thank you to J. Your friendship for the last twenty-five years is invaluable. I couldn’t have asked for a better beta reader for this book.
You’re all fucking awesome!
‘The madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s blessings.’
-Plato
CHAPTER ONE
Greer
She knew I was watching her.
I sit closer to the edge of my bed and peer down to the penthouse apartment in the building on the next block over. In the middle, there’s a small vacant lot now, where a 1920’s brownstone used to be. Most of the units are empty on the west side of it. It’s a luxurious place from what I can tell. Newly built with modern amenities. A unit in the sprawling, architectural feat had to set back buyers at least cool five million. I occupy the top two floors of my apartment building that’s a corner loft. No one else has this view of the apartment across the lot but me.
I narrow my eyes, sitting a little farther forward. I can hear my own breathing and my heart is pounding. I don’t know if it’s from anticipation or from the breakneck run I did, taking eight flights of stairs, two steps at a time in my building because the elevator was too fucking slow. Or, from the near car accident I almost got in on the lower west side from running a red light to make it here on time.
This has been going on for at least a month. Now, I’m obsessed.
Taking deep breaths, I use a handkerchief to dab the sweat from my forehead. The only thing in my view is the five-inch white strappy heels she wears and fishnet stockings. I can see a slither of red at the soles, telling me they aren’t just heels, but they’re Louboutin’s. She moves across what looks like ebony hardwood floors – back and forth. Her calves are toned. They flex each time the ball of her shoe twists against the floor when she turns. The window shade ascends a little higher, allowing me now to see the white garters that decorate the pale skin of her shapely hips and thighs. My breathing hitches and my mouth drops open. The shade goes up higher. I have a profile view of the woman from her breasts down and of her tiny waist.
I scramble to unpack the binoculars I was almost late for work today buying. I pull them from the box, ripping the tags and paper away, making a shit load of commotion while I get them out. I hold them in both of my shaky hands, adjusting the focus like my life depends on it. It’s clear now.
The woman in the apartment building across the vacant lot sits and I’m given a full view of a pale peach, lace balconette bra and matching panties. I scan the lingerie again up and down. It’s undoubtedly La Perla. It’s the only place I buy my own. I take in her figure. She’s curvy with breasts that would be a handful in my palms. I chew on my bottom lip, when she spreads her legs. She drags her fingers along the skin on the inside of her thighs with her small, delicate hands. A simple diamond eternity band decorates the middle finger of her right hand but otherwise, they’re bare of jewelry. I desperately want to see her face but I never can. I also never get the privilege of seeing her hair because it’s out of view. I assume it’s up but she could be bald for all I know.
She remains facing the window, removes her bra and drops it on the floor. The woman is insatiable. She kneads and squeezes her breasts for a long moment, pinching and teasing her nipples. I struggle for air watching her as she squirms from pleasuring herself. She brings both mounds together and then let’s go. They jiggle a little and I hiss. She lies back in the plush white linens beneath her and spreads her legs at the edge of the bed, parting them wide. She tears her panties away. I shoot up from my bed and walk closer to the window. I swallow hard when I realize my mouth is dry from keeping it open for so long.
Her pussy is on display. It’s pretty, waxed bare and begging to be licked. She spins around and bends over, giving me a full view of her round ass and the slit in between. She rocks forward a few times and then turns around. She plants her five-inch heels on the floor and then drops down into a swat, with her legs still parted. I wet my lips, as my heart slams against the front wall of my chest. I feel dizzy and fucking turned on. This woman is out of reach. I can’t touch her. I can’t talk to her. I may never even know her name but this show she puts on seems just to be for me. I imagine her being a Violet, Marie or a Celia – I don’t know why but that’s what I imagine her name being. Plus, the lingerie says it all and the color peach tells me she’s delicate, maybe even breakable. I always expect to see lace in fire engine red or black latex, instead her lingerie is always made of a soft material and in a pastel color, that’s usually peach.
She slips a hand down between her legs and bounces a little. She dips them into her slit and rubs the wetness on the outside of her pussy. It’s slow and deliberate, like she’s savoring herself. My breath fogs the glass in front of me. Quickly, I wipe it away and try my best to keep my mouth closed. When I focus again, she’s fucking herself with her fingers, massaging her clit at the same time. My pussy throbs at the sight and my panties are soaked. All week since last week, I’d thought about this. I even changed my weekly schedule to make sure I was home on Tuesday afternoons. It didn’t matter if I had to take a holiday or cancel meetings entirely. I made certain I was here, even if I had to call in dead.
Holding the binoculars in one hand, I slip my other one into my suit pants and I’m right. I’m soaking wet, watching this show. I push two fingers inside of me and pull them out, dragging my thumb up over my clit. I’m already panting watching this woman finger fuck herself. It won’t take much more to make me explode. She slows her movement and I’m moaning. I push in deeper when she does it again and my pussy throbs around my fingers. What am I doing? I’m a fucking voyeur!
I suppress my moans but my breathing grows louder. The woman in the apartment across the empty lot is going crazy, pushing her fingers into her wetness, until her entire hand disappears into her pussy. I’m moaning and screaming fogging up the glass in front of me and the binocular lenses. I tighten, clench and then throb hard. The woman is plowing into her tight slit with her hand, massaging her clit when she drags it out. Her legs jerk and she nearly collapses and so do I. I’m coming watching her writhe and squirm, wishing I could hear her sounds, slightly embarrassed by my own. I steady the binoculars still watching. I breathe deep and hard. I’m exhausted.
She’s still going, whil
e I’m close to collapsing. Her body jerks forward and she sprays out all over the hardwood floor beneath her.
I’m. In. Fucking. Awe.
Regan
I’m boneless, gasping for air. Immediately, I hit the control and the shade comes down completely, putting the room in afternoon darkness. I snatch the towel up that rests at the corner of the bed and toss it on the floor, sopping up my come. I brush the hair out of my face that sticks to my hot skin.
I’m such a fucking freak.
Standing, I make my way over to the bathroom and turn on the water. I linger in front of the mirror and let my hair down. The waves fall over each shoulder. My eyes are watery, tired. My cheeks are pink and post orgasmic. I strip out of the lingerie I’d been purchasing as of lately just for these days. The whole thing makes me feel so special, pretty. I don’t know who she is but she’s there like clockwork every Tuesday to watch me. She never disappoints. I can always rely on her. I wonder what she thinks when she watches me but I’m not sure I want to know. She must think I’m beautiful if she finds time to watch me every Tuesday afternoon. I try to make the show different each week but I can’t seem to shake the color peach. It’s my favorite. I pleasure myself and every single time I come...for her.
I take one last glance in the mirror at myself. I’d like to think I’m pretty. Maybe not exceptionally so but on a scale of one to ten, I’d like to think I’m at the higher end. The bathroom begins to fill with steam. I look around again at the sleek design in here. It’s all greys and whites. This apartment is modern with every fancy amenity you could think of, courtesy of my father who spares not one penny to keep me happy.
I’m thirty-three years old and living in the Big Apple. I want intimacy and as of lately, this woman across the lot is the closest thing to it. If pathetic doesn’t come to mind to you when I tell you that, then maybe you don’t know enough about me.
The woman across the lot doesn’t spend a lot of time at home, much like I don’t. When the morning light is low, she opens her blinds to every room in her apartment, except for her bedroom. I think she opens them just for me, since I’m really the only person that can see inside her place.
I’ve seen her before but I know she’s never seen me. She’s pretty and slim, with blonde wavy hair that hits the middle of her back and smoky grey eyes. She’s always wearing black but I’m not sure for what reason. I doubt she’s attending a funeral a day.
Her apartment walls are decorated with artwork. Each week, someone comes and changes the paintings on the wall, which is strange since she seems like she’s hardly home to look at them. As of lately, the paintings have changed drastically from the usual scenic canvases that are on display, to pieces that are more eye catching and I wonder if they’re for me.
Today, I came and I came hard. I’ve never felt comfortable enough to squirt, even though those are when I have the most intense orgasms. I want to do it again. She makes me feel like it’s okay – that it’s okay with her. I want to open up to her, to bare myself to her judgements if there are any.
Whoever she is, I like her already. She’s always there for me and she doesn’t push. Tomorrow, when I find some time during my lunch hour, I’m going to La Perla. I will try my best to buy another color that isn’t peach.
Maybe she will think I’m beautiful?
Greer
I needed to concentrate but I felt like I’d been smacked in the face by a ton of bricks. I was up all night last night thinking about the mystery woman across the lot. I wanted to see her face but then I didn’t. I wanted to know her but then I think I already did. All these thoughts were consuming the waking hours I had. Every now and again they also filtered into my sleep.
Instead of looking at the design plans in front of me, I was looking through artwork. A few months ago, I signed up for a service that lends out and delivers professional replicas of original artwork. I was in love with the paintings on my wall now. I had a new reason to put them there. I don’t know who she is but she’s delicate, shy. She likes to hide, I tell myself and I’m okay with that. Tuesday are our special day. She’d put on the show and I’d watch and let her keep her secret. I knew I could easily run across the lot and find out who occupies the penthouse of the new building but I didn’t want to do that. It would’ve been a violation of our unspoken agreement.
I sit at my desk and take a moment to stare out at the New York City skyline under the sunset. It’s a beautiful fire in the distance this evening. Glancing back at my computer screen, I select The Blue Dancers by Degas to be delivered tomorrow and to hang on my stone wall for a week in the special spot where it can be seen by the faceless woman across the lot. The painting speaks to me, always has. It’s vivid and lifelike. I swear no replication could possibly capture the subtle texture of the pastels. It highlights Degas’ obsession with ballerinas. It will hang there from tonight - for her.
I hit the faceplate of my phone when it dings, telling me I have a text.
‘Dinner?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now.’ Martin replies.
I check my watch, realizing it’s getting up to eight o’clock. It wouldn’t have been crazy to get dinner now.
‘Meet me at Gramercy Tavern on East 20th in half an hour. I’m bringing a friend.’
‘Okay. Will be there.’ I type in, tossing my phone down.
All my friends were in relationships. I’m thirty, wealthy and successful after being promoted to lead designer of the interior design firm I’d worked at for the last six years. I was tired of being single but after my last relationship imploded, I decided I’d give myself some time to be alone.
Greer
The stunning woman that sits across the table from me, blinks slowly and looks up from the rim of her wine glass.
Brie’s hair is the color of mahogany. Her eyes are rimmed with by thick lashes, I don’t entirely think are her own and her lips are stained a deep red. She’s attractive. She tries to be aggressive but little does she know, I don’t like being bossed around.
“Are you still collecting art, Greer?” Martin asks, earning my attention.
I’m certain he doesn’t appreciate the way the two of us are ignoring him, and eye fucking each other across the table.
Martin is my best friend. We’ve been friends since prep school and moved to the city together officially after college. He is a good-looking guy and us constantly being hit on by both men and women. Martin us six foot three and built like a racehorse from putting in countless hours at the gym. He has short dark hair and big brown eyes. He possesses a gorgeous smile and on top of that he’s a good person and one of the best people I know.
“Ah yes, somewhat. I’m still into art but I haven’t collected it for a while.” I tell him.
“Gregory, is going to join us maybe in a half hour or so.” Martin says.
I lift a shoulder in response.
Gregory and Martin had been married for nearly three years now. They were the perfect couple in a lot of ways but I couldn’t fucking stand Gregory. Martin knew it but always tried to convince me I would change my mind about Gregory, “once I got to know him”. I never did and I’d known Gregory now for almost four years. Gregory was a bigger asshole, than his own had to be by now. I just don’t like him. He’s rude, obnoxious and bossy and I hate the way he treats Martin. But, I’m supportive. Whatever makes Martin happy, makes me happy.
“Well.” Martin breathes out. “Brie and I are in spin class together.”
“Sounds fun.” I say with a smirk, taking another gulp of wine.
Martin chuckles. “We do an hour a day, five days a week. It’s done wonders for my ass.”
We all laugh.
I look at Martin across the table as he checks the Rolex around his wrist. Then he pulls out a box of cigarettes and taps them on the edge of the table.
“What is it, the 90’s?” I joke. “People don’t smoke anymore. You need to stop Martin, like yesterday.”
“I know.” He mumbles with t
he cigarette dangling from his lips.
I narrow my eyes as he searches for his lighter in his pocket and then saunters out of the restaurant to stand on the sidewalk.
I take a deep breath, looking around the busy restaurant. Glasses clink, people talk and laugh and dishes crash. Our table is tucked away in a quiet, dark corner. The right amount of ambient light surrounds us. Brie looks pretty, delectable and every other word I can come up with when I think about how much I want to fuck her. I inhale the red wine in my glass again, taking in the sweet, woodsy scent as it fills my nostrils. The tender spot between my legs warms, when I look at the woman across the table from me. She reaches out and runs a hand through my hair, taking a lock of it between her fingers. She skims my face with the back of her hand and cups my cheek. I allow her to. I turn my face into her palm. The raw attraction is undoubtedly there but she doesn’t talk much. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Perhaps, if she opens her mouth she knows I won’t like her anymore?
“Martin, didn’t tell me you were so pretty?”
I only smile at her compliment, then speak. “Thank you.” I whisper.
It’s the most she’s said all night. I was beginning to think Brie was mute.
“Want to get out of here?”
Brie gives me a smile that exposes every single one of her teeth. “Yeah, definitely.”
Regan
It’s Monday night. Peering across the lot, I notice a new painting hanging in her apartment. It’s largely blue. After typing the description into Google, the name for the impressionist painter Edgar Degas came up. The search told me that the original that was painted in 1899, now hangs in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow. I sit on my sofa and look at the large canvas that sits under one tiny light, illuminating it. It had to be for me.