6. Sev
6
SEV
I only see her once during the rest of the workday, and I snap at her, “Why aren’t you having that eye sorted out?”
I am an unmitigated arsehole.
And when I open my phone to the surveillance app after the little blue dot on the tracker shows me she’s at home, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I settle down with a glass of Scotch and my tablet to an evening of my favourite pastime—stalking Maisie.
It’s more fun to follow her in person, but it’s a weekday night, and my brothers have only just finished giving me shit. I wonder what my girl is doing?
I flick to the surveillance app with a smile, and anticipation in my heart. I love watching her read, or…
My jaw falls open. I cannot believe what I’m seeing. Maisie’s usual attire once she’s home from work is a slouchy T-shirt and yoga pants, with her hair in a haphazard ponytail. She relaxes on the sofa, and reads on that little digital thing, and eats cereal or something from the microwave.
But not tonight. This evening, Maisie has chosen violence towards her hidden audience of one.
She’s wearing a tiny negligee. I can see her tits peeking out from the cleavage, and the tops of her thighs are tantalisingly just in view.
She’s reading a book, but that’s the only familiar aspect of this.
I know her reading tastes are what is sometimes called “fairy porn”, and that’s not totally inaccurate having read some of it myself, but honestly anyone who has watched porn knows that you don’t have to wade through eight hundred pages of battling monsters and cheek touches to get to the good stuff. There is no comparison.
And she has just started this series. It’s unlikely it’s this horny on page twelve.
Part of me wants to download the book she’s reading right now to find out, but another part of me—my cock, specifically—demands that I remain where I am.
A drink, a view of the woman I love, and a huge empty penthouse. I guess this is as good as it gets.
My cock hardens as Maisie gets comfortable on the sofa, but my mind gets stuck, as it sometimes does, particularly when I’ve seen my brothers. She looks hot. Maisie is my ideal masturbation material.
But I don’t touch myself yet, because my heart aches. I wish she were here.
My elder brothers both have wives, and children on the way. They have love and laughter and companionship, and I am fucking jealous. When it was just Rafe that was bad enough. But now it’s Vito too—only months after I got him back from Milan—and the contrast makes the feeling even more stark.
I’m lonely. In the past I got a kick out of sabotaging Rafe, giving Vito shit about his accent, breaking the fingers of some ticker who overstepped, or finding an especially good planning loophole.
I used to find joy in watching Maisie. It was enough for so long. And past me is delighted that she is wandering around in a see-through dress. Negligee. Whatever.
But now I’d give everything to have Maisie with me, fully clothed.
And I can’t. My best friend would be as accepting of me being with his daughter as a pigeon is of clean cars.
So although my desire for Maisie is far from only physical, I keep it that way. This is more than I dreamed of, in fact.
Maisie on the screen is adjusting her position as she reads, and the front of that little tease of fabric flops down, giving me a perfect view of her tits.
And yeah, I crave her company.
But I’m a man. I want her lush, tight body, as well as her soul.
Then she eases one hand down her stomach, and I stop breathing as she reaches into her lace knickers.
She’s touching herself. Then she’s writhing, and the book is cast aside, and somehow, she’s looking straight up into the camera as she goes pink in the cheeks and her mouth opens in a pant of desire.
Suddenly, it’s too much. I rip open my trousers and release my cock, then jerk myself. Using my left hand, it feels slightly less like it’s me, and I can imagine it’s her. Inexperienced, but eager as she can’t wrap her fingers all the way around.
My cock is thick and heavy with need. I stroke myself with quick, harsh pumps of my fist as I watch. The pleasure is sharp, and I throw back the last of my whisky as I feel the tingle as my balls fill up, telling me I’m close.
Breathing hard, I take my hand off my cock and flick my shirt buttons open, revealing the familiar lines of the tattoos that cover my chest.
On the screen, Maisie has altered position, so her arse is pointed straight into the camera as she bends at the waist and continues to stroke her clit inside the knickers.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “It’s like you’re trying to make me think of taking you that way, Maisie.”
It’s not.
She doesn’t know I’m watching.
I don’t have any illusions about myself, but when Maisie arches her back and wiggles her arse, I feel like the filthy monster I truly am.
I stroke one thumb delicately over the screen, wishing I could touch her. Then when she shakes and collapses as she comes, I blow my load in wild spurt after spurt. Uncontrolled.
It’s pleasurable. And hollow.
* * *
She continues like this. Walking around in her apartment in hardly any clothes—just a pair of white cotton knickers, or a baggy T-shirt that doesn’t cover her arse. Sometimes only wearing tiny knickers.
It’s like she’s deliberately teasing me. I’ve been stalking Maisie for two years, and she’s a young woman with the usual needs, but they’ve been satisfied in her bed before. Now, she reclines on the sofa and flicks the bean, with or without underwear, or sits on the kitchen counter. Her bruises heal, and she looks more beautiful and sexy by the day.
If watching her was good before, it’s somewhere around torture now. It used to be an obsession, it’s turned into an addiction.
So it’s a positive thing when I have a social appointment where I absolutely cannot open my phone and sneak a look at Maisie.
Wes and I meet in the Morden executive exercise suite, the part that actually has a gym and a shooting range, not the cells. They’ve been thoroughly cleaned, and are thankfully empty of distractions. Wes is far too bloodthirsty to focus on target practise or lifting weights when there’s someone to extract information from.
We’re chatting about London mafia politics and trying out some new guns Wes has had shipped in, when he changes the subject.
“I’ve been thinking about Maisie. I’m still concerned about that bruise she had. What if she has a boyfriend?”
I choke slightly. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’d kill him.” I pull the trigger repeatedly, with more force than necessary. It’s a blanket denial of the idea of Maisie being with anyone, as well as a rejection of the link to her self-inflicted bruise.
Wes nods. “You said you’d look after her, and I trust you.”
And I’m betraying that trust by watching his daughter touch herself. Intimately. And doing a bit of a follow-along myself. If my best friend knew, I’d be dead in seconds.
Cheery thought.
“How’s Maisie getting on at work?” Wes fires off a round at the moving target. “How long has she been at Morden now?”
My chest is tight as I flick new ammunition into my pistol and avoid looking at him.
“Dunno,” I lie.
“Surely she’s bored? She has that business degree, but I can’t think she uses it?”
I shrug. She’s been promoted multiple times and is a junior manager, but I doubt Wes will appreciate that.
“I don’t see her much.” Also a lie. “Just when she takes notes, or meetings. Like for our South London cabal sessions. It’s good having a trustworthy person around.”
“I wish she would work for me,” he grumbles. “Or do her duty as a mafia princess and marry for the benefit of Mitcham.”
“She can marry me, if you ask really nicely,” I say in my usual dry manner.
“I will kill you if you touch her,” he replies, emptying his whole clip into the target.
“If you shoot me with that much accuracy, I’ll marry your son and your dog, too,” I smirk.
“I’ll murder you with a spoon.” He slams the next clip in with unnecessary force. “Heard it hurts more that way.”
“She’s twenty-three years old. You’re upset she doesn’t eat with a spoon anymore, so you feel old.” I keep my tone light and cynical, hiding how much this means to me.
“Fuck you,” Wes spits. “I’m closer to twenty-three than she is.”
I laugh. “Same.”
“Thanks for looking out for her. I just can’t accept she’s grown up,” he grumbles. “My daughter is a baby.”
“With a full-time job,” I point out.
“Child labour.”
“You were telling me I’m going soft. Child labour seems the kind of thing I could get behind.”
We’re walking a tightrope.
“Morally corrupt is fine.” Wes gives me a look that turns my blood cold. “But nobody touches my daughter.”