Chapter Eight
Beau- three weeks ago
Four. Three. Two. One. Rest.
I set the weight down, my bicep pumped, and the veins in my arm a tangle of pulsing tributaries.
My cock is hard. No news there. I stare at the television I have mounted on a rolling stand. It’s a black-and-white fish-eye view of an empty hallway, and it’s been my constant companion. Sunlight hits my back, warming me, and I force myself to continue my workout.
Fenwick was able to secure this condo for me and have it move-in ready within two days.
In true bachelor fashion, I’ve got a huge mattress on the living room floor, abutting the floor-to-ceiling window, a TV, and a weight set so I don’t have to leave as often to work out.
Thank fucking Christ it’s the offseason.
The hidden camera I installed in the shared hallway could probably get me arrested if anyone notices it, but I’m not going to dwell on that.
Not when I saw her. I mean, I’ve seen her, but yesterday she finally went for a walk to a nearby coffee stand.
I hid in the shadows of a nearby alley and managed to get an angle of her face.
She smiled warmly at the barista, then tipped her sunglasses up onto her head, and I went dizzy.
My back hit the rough bricks, saving me from falling as I stared at Gracyn Moreno’s olive eyes.
Those funny eyes that I’ve never been able to erase from my memory.
It’s fucking her. Her face morphed in my mind, and I could see her under the slimmer nose, the thicker lips, the wide hips, and dyed hair.
It was fucking her all along. How did I not know?
Or maybe I did? Maybe subconsciously, my body knew.
I remember the tears that sprang to my eyes as I’d fucked her tight little pussy.
My cock certainly knew something was up.
That day was game over for me. I’d overnighted the hidden cameras and hadn’t gone more than two minutes without staring at the hall video.
Waiting for—I don’t know what. What the fuck am I doing?
I should’ve confronted her in that moment.
I should’ve called her name, watched the recognition trickle into her stare.
But no. I realized it all in seconds. She knows.
She had to know it’s me. She saw me and fucked me.
Her hesitancy about the second meeting makes a hell of a lot more sense now.
She didn’t want me to know she’s my whore. My whore. Other men’s whore.
It wouldn’t just have been recognition in her stare. It would be horror. Embarrassment. Shame. And that’s why I didn’t confront her.
Not that I have any plan now. Other than staring at her in the hall and following her through the streets of Seattle.
Motion catches my eye on the screen, and I see Gracyn.
Cyndi. Cyn. My Cyn. She exits, and I rush to throw on a shirt so I can follow her, but the moment the door closes, she pauses, and I watch as she rummages through her bag.
She turns back to the door, and I walk to the TV, staring at her keypad as she punches in her code.
It’s the first time I’ve been able to see her going inside her door. 2328.
2328
She goes back in and out, and I’m stuck there, staring at her back as she walks to the elevator and out of my line of sight.
2328. Beau. My name is her code. Something in my chest swells. Is that my heart?
I do something bad. Very bad.
I grab my two extra cameras, each about the size of a quarter, and, without knowing how long she’ll be gone or when she’ll be back, I type in the code with shaky fingers and enter Cyn’s condo.
It smells like her. Warm cocoa butter. Dusty makeup. Matcha.
With my heart pounding in my ears, I scan the room.
Cream furniture and pink throw pillows. Fuzzy blankets.
Green glass vases full of bright blooms. It’s pretty and feminine, just like her.
The black-eyeliner-ed face in high school was just a domino.
A disguise. This is the real Cyn. She hid, even from me, and my skin feels tight at the thought.
I was so fucking stupid. So self-centered.
I move to a corner with a clear view of the room and stick my discreet camera to a black-and-white piece of art she has on a high shelf, arranging the vines of a leafy plant to camouflage it.
I feel huge and dirty in her bedroom. But my desire to know more about her outweighs my guilt at turning into one more predator who is about to violate her.
My mind tangles with itself as I pant and sweat, ignoring my self-disgust. I’m not going to hurt her.
I fucking love her. She’s my endgame. Always has been, always will be.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I do not open her underwear drawer, though I do want to. I look over her terra cotta muslin duvet cover and wish I could curl up with her tonight. I know it would be the best sleep of my life.
A bottle of foundation lies tipped over.
It’s dripping its flesh-colored goop onto her clean white vanity.
I move quickly to her bathroom and grab some tissue paper.
A pink disc sits on the counter. Birth control.
Without thinking, I pocket it. Going back out, I wipe up the mess before it dribbles down onto her carpet.
When I flip on the vanity lights to make sure I got everything, I see that one of her bulbs is out.
Taking note of the almost empty makeup bottle, I make a mental note to replace it and the bulb as soon as I get out of here.
I can’t wait any longer; it’s growing too risky, and I’ve already been so fucking sloppy.
What if she notices the cameras? My scent?
Would she call the cops? It wouldn’t take them long to find out who owns the unit next door.
I’ve done nothing to hide my tracks. They’d be able to see my online purchases of hidden security cameras.
How many street videos have caught me tracking her around town like a lion after its prey?
How many times did I email her boss from my personal account after getting the info from Marcus? 10? 20?
I’m home in under a minute. I turn on the cameras and sit my ass in a chair mere feet from the TV. I’m drenched in exhilaration-induced sweat, waiting for Cyndi to get home.
An audible moan seeps through my parted lips when she exits the elevator.
She's gorgeous. Her face is crisp and clear on my new hidden cameras. She has on an oversized sweater and black ribbed shorts that hug her little ass beautifully. She’s brought back a takeout chicken Caesar salad, and I can’t take my eyes off her rolling jaw muscles as she eats.
She never so much as glances in the direction of the camera.
Guilt pricks at the back of my brain, but I ignore it. I try to justify my actions as she kicks off her socks. Then her shorts. Pulls off her sweater and bra. I’ve already seen her naked. I’ve literally been inside her body. I’ve touched every inch of her. What does this matter?
She crawls onto her bed in just a pair of panties, and I groan, squeezing my cock when her ass wags at me. Shit. Shit. She’s on her back. One hand cupping her tit. The other hides under her panties and strokes the wet little slit. That tasty gash.
I cum in my palm a full six minutes before she finishes.
I let the gelatinous jizz coagulate, then crack into a parched desert terrain on my skin as I stare transfixed.
Her hips rise, bones jutting. Her shell-pink toes curl.
Her nipples tighten into two suckable cherry Dum-Dums. I have to finally close my eyes and count down from one hundred to stop from barging over there and revealing my burgeoning insanity, jail time be damned.
When she falls asleep, I order her new foundation and bulbs.
Then I add some of the vitamins and supplements I saw on her kitchen counter.
I can refill the bottles for her. Lastly, I purchase gift cards to local spas and salons within walking distance.
They can be mailed to her with no purchaser information.
“You gotta come for dinner, man. Shante’s been asking. She said Malia’s still interested, if you are.” Marcus doesn’t know about Cyndi. I mean, he knows I met with a sex worker. Twice. He’s the one who set it up initially. But he doesn’t know who she is.
“Yeah, sure. How about next Tuesday?” I’m only half-paying attention to him. Cyndi is on my TV screen, lolling on the couch, her feet crossed on the arm, her hair brushing the floor.
She seems sad. I try to read her expressions, her body language. She’s a creature of routine, going to the same places every day. She hasn’t had visitors or done much of anything. There’s been no sign of her mom. Isn’t she lonely?
“Good. Good. And Malia?”
There’s been no hook-ups either. No visits to hotels.
She has only picked up her phone for short intervals in the mornings.
Does she have a pimp? That’s stupid. I know she works for a big escort company.
I’m glad. At least they take care of their staff and pay well if her lifestyle is any indication.
My abs cramp at the thought of her going to get fucked by another dude.
Be fucking cool. This is her job. I can’t tell her what to do. Don’t be a raging asshole, Beau.
I can’t scare her away not now that I’ve finally found her.
“Bro?”
“Yeah, sorry. No. Not interested, man.”
“Are you insane?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“You good with Indian food? Shante’s on a curry kick.”
“Sounds perfect. See you soon. Tell Shante I said hi.”
We hang up, and I get antsy at the thought of being away from my cameras for even a few hours next week. What if she falls and hits her head alone in her condo? What if she hasn’t emptied her lint trap and it starts a fire? I need to check her lint trap first thing tomorrow.
Cyn is standing, wrapped in a tiny towel.
My balls throb. She’s so still, droplets skimming down her long legs like round diamonds.
My fingers twitch to stand behind her and carefully untangle her thick hair with a comb.
When she calls someone on the phone, I stand and move closer.
Why the fuck didn’t I buy a listening bug?
Why did I never learn to lip-read? What’s going on?
She rubs lotion all over her naked body, and I fight the urge to jack off.
Then, for the first time in weeks, Cyndi sits at her lit vanity and begins painting her face.
I’m rapt. I’ve never seen a woman get ready in real time like this.
It’s astounding. Creams, brushes, glue, tools I’ve never even seen before and couldn’t name in a line-up.
When she finishes and starts straightening her hair, I begin to get nervous.
There’s only one reason she’s putting a full-body tactical suit of makeup on after weeks of nothing. She’s meeting someone tonight.
I don’t plan what happens next. My adrenaline spikes, and I can’t think over the screaming in my head. This is her job. How she earns money. I can’t stop her. I can’t force her to be who I want her to be.
But that primal animal in me, that possessive asshole, is raging. My cock is ramrod stiff, all my blood is circulating through my groin, and my brain is a dried-up husk. I’m surviving on instinct alone.
I pull on workout gloves so she can’t break my skin. I rip the cord off the back of the only lamp I have and toss it onto my mattress alongside a clean tea towel from the kitchen. Digging through the suitcases I still haven’t unpacked, I grab my only two leather belts. One black and one brown.
Cyndi has on a simple black dress that sets off her warm tan. She’s stunning. Perfect. Made for me.
She spins in a circle, and my chest constricts at the sweetness of it. I stand sentinel, my hand on my doorknob, eyes on the television. One second after she opens her front door, I follow suit.
I suck in air through my nose, dizzy on her powdery scent.
I haven’t been this close to her since our last night together, and I’m nearly overwhelmed.
Then I remember she’s going to let some other rich fuck see her like this and I see red.
I move quickly and quietly, a lifetime of training leading up to this moment.
One hand silences her; the other arm circles and lifts.
She’s tiny. She doesn’t stand a chance. She kicks and twists, but I just tighten my hold, ignoring the throb of my cock as it presses between her globular cheeks.
I’m panting as her door clicks shut. That’s how fast I moved, how swiftly I made this criminal decision.
To take her. To stop her from fucking someone else at all costs.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper into her twisting neck, the silken strands of her hair tangling with mine, sticking to my lips. I feel like I’m on fire. I’ve lost my goddamn mind.
I spin, catching my door with my bare foot before it shuts. We’re safe inside. The entire snatching took less than five seconds. Five seconds to fuck up my entire life.
Worth it.
Her eyes are wide but somehow grow wider with recognition when I drag her to the bed and shove the tea towel in her mouth.
I manhandle her slight frame like a true prick, apologizing the entire time.
I wrap the cord around her head and knot it, giving me more space to work now that I know her screams won’t immediately summon help.
The black belt cinches tightly around her wrists; I loop it around over and under until it’s snug.
I finally stop to catch my breath and kneel before my bound captive.
She’s seated neatly before me. Her hair is wild, and the towel and cord are a mess, but I’m surprised her face is dry of tears, and she’s stopped struggling.
“I had to, Cyn. I couldn’t let you go to some other man.
I couldn’t.” I grumble manically. Her knees are slightly spread, and I can’t stop myself from placing my big, trembling hands on them.
Shock jolts through me at our skin-to-skin contact in the full light of day.
She makes some sort of muffled sound, but I can’t understand, and I can’t stand to see hatred in her gaze, so I stare at my hands on her skin.
I drop my head, almost bowing, and kiss her softly just on her inner thigh.
Then I grab the remaining brown belt and tie her ankles together.