Chapter 7
Ramsey
"Fuck."
My dick is so hard it could break through a fucking ice rink. I adjust myself, hissing at the painful friction as I watch Reese stomp up the stairs, her perfect ass swaying in those goddamn leggings that might as well be painted on.
I grip the armrest of the couch, knuckles turning white as I try to get my shit together.
Four years. Four fucking years of wanting her and never letting myself have her.
Four years of jerking off to the thought of her while she sleeps just one floor above me, completely fucking oblivious to the fact that I'm downstairs coming all over my fist with her name on my lips.
But this? Her straddling my lap, feeling her heat press against my body, watching her bite that full bottom lip when she felt how hard I was for her? This is a new level of torture I wasn't prepared for.
I groan, dropping my head back against the couch cushions. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since before the game, but food is the last fucking thing on my mind right now. I need to see her. Need to watch her and make sure she's okay after what just happened.
Pushing myself off the couch, I head straight for my bedroom, bypassing the kitchen entirely.
When I bought this place, I insisted Reese take the actual suite upstairs.
Told her some bullshit about how I preferred the first floor for "convenience.
" The truth? I wanted her to have the best of everything—always have, always will. It’s easy to throw some money around, and I had the downstairs bedroom made into its own suite easily.
I lock my door behind me and cross to my desk where my setup waits—four massive monitors arranged in a perfect arc, the most powerful custom PC money can buy. Most people would use this kind of rig for gaming or coding. I’ll use it for something else entirely right now.
With a few keystrokes, all four screens light up, switching to live feeds from Reese's bedroom.
I grab my glasses off my desk to help with the screen strain.
The cameras are small, practically invisible—positioned strategically to capture every angle of her room.
One in the corner near her dresser, one by her bookshelf, one above her bathroom door, and the last—my favorite—directly across from her bed.
I should feel guilty about this. Any normal person would. But I've never claimed to be normal, and when it comes to Reese, I crossed the line between protection and obsession a long fucking time ago.
She's pacing her room, running her fingers through her hair the way she does when she's agitated. I turn up the volume, and her muttering fills my headphones.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," she's saying to herself. "What were you thinking, Reese? Straddling him like some puck bunny—"
I can't tear my eyes away as she storms into her bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
My screens switch to the bathroom feed automatically, but I pause, finger hovering over the key.
Even I have some fucked-up version of boundaries.
I toggle back to the main room view and wait, adjusting myself through my joggers, hissing at how sensitive I am.
The door opens three minutes later, and fuck me sideways, she's changed into a thin black tank top and those tiny sleep shorts that barely cover her ass.
My mouth goes dry as she flops onto her bed, the mattress bouncing slightly with her weight.
Her hair fans out across her pillow, and she reaches into her nightstand drawer, pulling out a blue Jolly Rancher—our favorite flavor.
She unwraps it, pops it in her mouth, and grabs her phone.
Just like that, she's settled in for the night, completely unaware that I'm watching her every move, memorizing every detail.
The way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
How her tongue occasionally darts out to lick her blue-stained lips.
The slight furrow between her brows as she scrolls through whatever's on her screen.
My hand slides into my joggers before I even make the conscious decision. I'm so fucking hard it hurts, the head of my cock already leaking pre-cum. I push my pants down to my thighs and wrap my fist around my shaft, groaning at the contact.
"Fuck, Reese," I whisper, stroking from root to tip and back down again.
She's not even doing anything sexual—just lying there, sucking on candy, scrolling through her phone—and I'm about to lose my fucking mind. This is how I love her best. Natural, unaware, and mine to watch.
I swipe my thumb over the head, spreading the wetness, making each stroke slicker. On screen, she shifts position, rolling onto her stomach, and the new angle gives me a perfect view of her ass in those shorts. They've ridden up, exposing the lower curve of her cheeks.
"Jesus Christ," I groan, speeding up my strokes. I'm not going to last long. Not after having her on my lap earlier, feeling her heat against me.
She laughs at something on her phone; the sound coming through my headphones, and my dick twitches in my hand. What I wouldn't give to hear that laugh while I'm buried deep inside her, making her come on my cock.
The thought sends me spiraling closer to the edge. I grip the base of my dick hard, trying to stave off my orgasm. Not yet. I want to savor this.
On screen, she rolls onto her back again, stretching her arms above her head. The movement makes her tank top ride up, exposing a strip of smooth skin across her stomach. I zoom in on that patch of skin, imagining how soft it would feel under my tongue, how she'd squirm.
My fist tightens around my cock, thumb sliding over the leaking head as I watch her stretch. I'm working myself too fast, too hard, and I know it. Forcing myself to slow down, I ease my grip, teasing along the shaft with feather-light touches that make my thighs tremble.
I want to make this last, but patience is a hard thing to fucking have when you have everything you’ve ever wanted right in front of you.
On screen, she yawns, her full lips parting in a way that has me imagining them stretched around my cock. I grip myself harder, imagining pushing between those lips, feeling her throat constrict around me.
Fuck, baby. The things I'd do to you.
I'm leaking steadily now, pre-cum dripping over my knuckles. I spread it down my shaft, using it as lube to make each stroke smoother. The slick sounds fill my room as I work myself, keeping right at the edge without tipping over.
She shifts again, and her tank top rides up higher, revealing the underside of her breasts. No bra. Of course she's not wearing a fucking bra. The knowledge that only that thin fabric separates me from seeing her nipples has me groaning, my hips bucking up involuntarily.
"Not yet," I command myself, squeezing the base of my cock hard. I want this to last. Want to torture myself with the sight of her while I deny myself release.
This is my penance. My punishment for being the kind of fucked-up person who spies on his best friend. Who gets off on watching her when she has no idea.
I ease my grip slightly, returning to those long, torturous strokes that keep me right on the edge. My balls are tight and heavy, aching for release, but I refuse to give in.
On screen, she sits up suddenly, setting her phone aside. My breath catches as she reaches for the hem of her tank top and pulls it over her head in one fluid motion. She tosses it aside, leaving her in just those tiny shorts, her perfect tits exposed to my hungry gaze.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I hiss, my cock jerking in my hand.
She's perfect. Small, perky tits with rosy nipples that are puckered in the cool air of her room. I zoom in, memorizing every detail—the slight curve underneath, the way her nipples point slightly upward, the faint blue veins visible beneath her pale skin.
I'm shaking now, sweat beading on my forehead as I work my cock faster, then slower, then faster again. Edging myself to the point of pain. My balls draw up tight, and I squeeze hard at the base again, gritting my teeth against the need to come.
"Not yet, not yet, not yet," I chant, my voice a ragged whisper. I don’t want this to be over yet.
My balls tighten painfully as heat coils at the base of my spine. I'm so close. So fucking close. I bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out her name loudly, biting until I taste copper, until the pain grounds me in this moment of pure fucking ecstasy.
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I explode, cum erupting from my cock in thick, hot ropes that splash across my stomach and chest. The orgasm rips through me with such force that my vision blurs at the edges, my entire body tensing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
Reaching blindly for the box of tissues I keep in my desk drawer specifically for this purpose, I yank several free and wipe the mess from my skin.
My glasses are sitting crooked on my face, knocked askew when I threw my head back during my release. I straighten them with shaking fingers, blinking as the screens come back into sharp focus.
I tuck myself back into my joggers, tossing the soiled tissues into the trash bin. My body feels wrung out, but my mind is still racing, still hungry for more of her. My breathing is still ragged, heart hammering in my chest like I just played three periods straight without a break.
She gets up, padding across her room to her dresser.
My eyes follow every movement as she pulls out an oversized t-shirt—one of mine that went missing months ago—and slips it over her head.
The sight of her in my clothes sends a possessive thrill through me, even though she doesn't know I'm watching.
Maybe especially because she doesn't know.
I settle in, watching as she moves around her room, going through her nightly routine. She disappears into the bathroom again, and I hear the water running, the familiar sounds of her brushing her teeth. When she emerges, her face is clean.
She reaches for the lamp beside her bed, and the room dims to a soft glow. I switch the cameras to night vision mode; the screen shifts to shades of green as she pulls back her covers and slides beneath them.
She tosses and turns for nearly twenty minutes, fluffing her pillow, kicking at the covers, before finally settling on her side. Her breathing gradually slows, becoming deep and even.
I watch the gentle rise and fall of the covers, counting her breaths until I'm certain she's fully asleep. One hour turns into almost two as I sit motionless, guarding her slumber.
Only when I'm absolutely certain she's deep in dreamland, do I finally power down my monitors.
I push away from my desk, my body stiff from sitting so long. My legs protest as I stand, pins and needles shooting through my feet. I shuffle to my bathroom, brushing my own teeth mechanically while my mind stays fixed on the image of Reese sleeping upstairs.
Mine. Always mine, even when she’s not. No one can take my place.
I keep telling myself I need to rein it in but I don’t know how much longer I can play at being a saint when it comes to her.
Every moment something happens it gets harder and harder and having her in my lap earlier almost severed the threadbare string holding me back.