He Watches Me: The Seen Trilogy: Part One (4 page)

“I left my flip-flops on the grass.” I follow him, savoring the grass between my toes.

“I’ll return them in the morning.” Blaine doesn’t take my hand. He doesn’t brush his arm against mine. Heat and tension radiates from his physique. How long can he go without touching me?

Or doesn’t he want to touch me? I frown. Is he merely interested in watching? “I left my clothes here last night.”

“I won’t return those,” he rumbles.

My frown deepens. “Did you throw them away?” They were old and worn but they were mine and I don’t have many clothes.

“I claimed them,” Blaine tells me. I don’t know what this means. Why would he claim a faded camisole and bleached thin boy shorts?

As we approach the gate, I slow my already slow pace. I’m tired and sexually sated, yet I’m not ready to leave Blaine, not yet.

The Leighs’ gate is beautiful but not unique. Every stretch of wrought iron enclosing Blaine’s backyard has a similar gate.

“Four sides, four gates,” I observe.

“One can never have too many exits.”

“That’s true.” I understand his need for freedom. If I was a billionaire, I’d have no fences. I take my own sweet time unlocking the gate, not wanting to end this encounter.

When I’m gone, will he unzip those restrictive dress pants and masturbate in the dark? Or, I stiffen, will he find another woman to ease his arousal? Am I simply an appetizer and not his main course?

“There’s no need to worry, Anna.” Shadows play over Blaine’s face. “I’m watching over you.”

“I’m not coming back tomorrow.” I decide. This relationship, or experience or whatever this is, can’t be healthy. It isn’t normal.

“You will.”

Blaine’s chuckle follows me as I hurry back to the Leighs’ steel and concrete bungalow. I tell myself I won’t look back but I can’t resist and I do. I don’t see Blaine. He’s gone, vanishing as though he has never existed.

Chapter Three

W
HEN
I
WAKE
up, I look in the mirror and a miracle has happened. My hair is no longer frizzy. It cascades over my shoulders, a sheet of rippling brown silk.

Buoyed by my great hair day, I decide to try out the new bra and panties. The panties are okay. I remain uncomfortable with the bra. My breasts don’t look like my breasts. They’re huge, massive. Even my baggy white blouse clings to them.

As I’ll likely be the only one who notices, I decide not to change and head out the door. My flip-flops are lined up neatly by the cold steel welcome mat, Blaine once again keeping his word.

I give the bus driver a cheery hello. He grumbles back. I sit beside a man in a construction hat and grubby work boots who spends the trip cursing out some poor soul on the other end of the phone. He’s using f-bombs like my mom would use oregano, liberally.

Thinking of my missing mom dims my spirits for a moment but then I stroke my hair and I bounce back. The normally unruly tendrils are soft and straight. I’m tempted to call Blaine and ask him for the name of his conditioner.

Although I have his number, I don’t have a phone, so I save that question for tonight. I’ll see him one more time, in the interest of frizz-free hair.

I pick up my list of past donors from the constantly texting receptionist, I scan the names and donation dates and my smile brightens. All of the people I’m slated to call today have donated within the last decade.

I’m so happy, I forget myself and smile at Goth girl. She is cursing a blue streak as she struggles to fit her brand new headset over her massive green Mohawk. She has also moved to the empty seat beside mine. I think I might have made a new friend.

I bend over to set my tote by my feet, and the key Blaine gave me slides across my skin. My nipples tighten. Although the blouse hugs my curves, I don’t worry that anyone will notice my arousal. The bra’s thick padding would conceal a Blaine-sized erection.

Third call in, I talk to a past donor who says she appreciates my call. Her business is going through rough times, the economy, you know, but in a couple of months she should have funds to contribute. I write a call back date beside her name, circle the line in bright red, and place stars in the margin. If I’m lucky to be here in two months, she will be the first person I call.

Around noon the big-breasted blonde in the front row makes her first call of the day. She mangles the name of the charity, giggles, tosses her hair, and secures another meet and greet. Bells ring. We all clap. Boss man moves her to an office.

I’m genuinely happy for her and I’m hopeful I’ll soon have an office too. My hair looks fabulous. My call list is less aged. I’ve only been yelled at by one donor thus far today. The only downer is that Michael hasn’t arrived yet.

At a quarter past two in the afternoon, Boss man returns to the edge of the pit. He scans his team and my stomach squeezes. He’s looking for me, I know it. He’s found out I don’t really, truly know Gabriel Blaine, or worse, he’s uncovered the truth about my father.

“Anna Sampson, you’re wanted in meeting room one.” He waves his hands frantically.

Meeting room one? As I hop out of my seat, my coworkers turn and stare at me. Goth girl blinks her obscenely long fake green eyelashes. Meeting room one is where the biggest donors are parked. It is the dominion of Melinda Grack, the queen of the big-breasted blondes.

“Sir, what is this about?” I hurry to keep pace with Boss man. I’ve never seen him move so quickly.

“You did it,” Boss man gushes. “I knew you had it in you. I could tell when I hired you, you had potential.”

Potential? I shake my head, confused. Yesterday he wanted to fire me.

Boss man raps his knuckles against the door, swings it open and gestures for me to enter. He doesn’t follow me, shutting the door behind me.

“There she is.” Melinda Grack stands, her humongous breasts barely contained in a bright red suit jacket, a false gaiety in her voice. “Our little Anna Sampson.” She reaches out to me with her crimson-tipped dagger nails and draws me into her gravity-defying curves. A wall of floral-scented perfume hits me and my eyes water.

“Miss Sampson,” the deep voice I can’t banish from my dreams drawls. Gabriel Blaine stands by a fake ficus. He’s clad in yet another black suit and a different white shirt, a surprisingly cheerful pastel yellow tie knotted below his pointed chin.

The fluorescent lights make his features even harsher, his hair black as the nights we’ve shared, his tan deep, and his eyes a piercing green. His hard gaze is fixed on me.

“Mr. Blaine.” What is he doing here? I place one of my palms on my chest, my fingertips touching my key, certain he can hear my pounding heart.

His gaze lowers to my breasts and he frowns, lines appearing between his dark eyebrows.

“Don’t just stand there.” Melinda pushes me forward. “Greet Mr. Blaine properly.”

She thinks Blaine is a prospective donor. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Mr. Blaine.” Forced to play along, I recite the often rehearsed script from the Feed Your Hungry meet and greet training. Melinda nods, beaming proudly. I rub my moist palms over my black pants and extend my hand.

Blaine raises his eyebrows. Is he asking if he can touch me?

I nod and he clasps my right hand with both of his, his skin rough and warm, arousing and strangely comforting. “The pleasure of seeing you is all mine,” he murmurs, a devilish glint in his eyes.

Our gazes meet and I forget we’re not alone. I forget everything except for him. I lean forward. He does also. I smell his cologne but no scent of cigar. I skim the fingers of my left hand around my collar, my clothing unbearably restrictive.

“Anna, if you could take a seat.” Melinda’s voice jerks me back to reality. I pull my hand away from Blaine’s and plunk my ass down in the nearest chair. “Mr. Blaine, may I call you Gabriel?”

“No.” Blaine prowls around the room, his movements sensuous and feline. He positions himself at the table across from me, sitting beside the flustered blonde.

“Yes, well,” Melinda splutters. “Mr. Blaine was telling me how you cleverly convinced him to contribute, little Anna.”

“Was he?” I squeak. Please let him have only mentioned the stripping. I can deal with that if my father’s shame remains hidden.

Blaine’s lips flatten. “I support any charity Miss Sampson supports.” He gazes at me. I gaze back, mesmerized by him. He’s not handsome, at least not by any of the current standards, but his face is intriguing.

It is more than intriguing. When I look at Blaine, I can’t look away. I have to watch him.

Is this how he feels about me? Is this why he watches me?

Melinda’s voice chirps in the background. I’m not listening to her. Blaine must not be listening either because in the midst of her run-on sentence he slips his hand into his jacket, withdraws a check and places it on the table.

“This is the first installment,” he informs us, his voice flat.

I tear my gaze away from his, read the amount, and my eyes widen. My father went to prison for attempting to steal less.

A laugh escapes Melinda’s bloodred lips. “Why, Mr. Blaine.” Her hands disappear under the tabletop. “That is so generous of you, so very, very generous.” Her voice lowers. Clothing rustles. Blaine’s muscles contract and his features sharpen.

Is she feeling him up? I glare at Melinda and curl my fingers into tight little fists, tempted to smack that smirk right off her cosmetically enhanced face. I don’t like the thought of another woman touching Blaine. I don’t like it one bit.

Blaine places the woman’s hands on the wooden surface, his grip whitening Melinda’s skin. “My donation has conditions.” He releases her, leaving a pink mark around her golden wrists. “I’ll have weekly meetings with Miss Sampson at a location of my choosing, and if she ever leaves the organization, my contributions will stop also.”

“I understand.” Melinda glances at me and her eyes harden, her smiling mask remaining firmly in place.

I know what she’s thinking. I’m thinking it too. He’s trying to buy me. I turn my glare on Blaine. And he’s trying to buy all of me. No one pays six figure installments for a striptease. “I quit.” I stand, prepared to starve . . . again, before I sell myself to him or to anyone else.

“I wish to speak to Miss Sampson alone.” Blaine’s voice is frighteningly quiet.

“Now, Anna, don’t be hasty.” Melinda isn’t as controlled, shrieking her dismay.

“Ms. Grack, leave us,” Blaine barks, and the woman’s spine snaps straight.
“Now.”
Melinda scurries from the room.

“I—”

“Wait.” Blaine controls what would have been my out-of-control rant with a single word. He stalks to the fake ficus, reaches into the plastic leaves, and a mechanical click breaks the silence.

He then moves to the opposite corner of the room, feels along the beige blinds, and the sound occurs again.

“One more.” Blaine turns, faces the closed door and stretches his lean body, rising to the tips of his shiny black leather shoes. His jacket pulls up, giving me a glimpse of tight firm ass I’m certain I’ll dream about tonight. He fiddles with a black lens.

I inhale sharply. We’re on camera. Someone is filming us.

“Now speak.” Blaine returns to his seat, sits down and gazes at me expectantly.

I shift my weight, tempted to run out the door, away from this confrontation, away from this pain, but I know from past experience this isn’t the solution. “Are you sure there isn’t another camera?” I look around the room, my trust in everything and everyone, including him, shattered.

“I’m sure,” Blaine declares with a confidence I don’t feel.

I shouldn’t feel anything. I trusted him. I thought I was safe with him. I believed him when he said he wouldn’t touch me. My anger returns, coiling in my gut, ready to strike, to hurt him as he hurt me. “I won’t be bought.” I place my fists on my hips and glower at Blaine.

“And I won’t have my honor questioned.” He holds my gaze, the hardness in his eyes telling me he’d kill to defend his honor. “I told you I wouldn’t touch you unless you asked me to. My donation doesn’t overwrite that vow.”

Lack of money overwrote my father’s vows of honesty, but Blaine is stronger than my father. My righteous rage deflates and I sit back down.

“This will be the last time we discuss this,” Blaine informs me.

Because he’s tired of my doubts. I stare down at my trembling fingers. Have I destroyed whatever we have between us? “I’m sorry,” I apologize. Blaine doesn’t say anything and the grief chokes me. “I’m not used to being seen and it scares me,” I admit.

His eyes soften. “Is this why you hide your body?” He lowers his gaze to my baggy blouse, pausing yet again at my padded breasts. “You intentionally disappear.”

“I can then choose who sees me.” Who has the power to hurt me.

“You chose me.” Blaine’s gaze holds mine. Minutes pass. The connection between us, the understanding, the trust strengthens. “You showed me everything.”

“Yeah.” I showed him more than my body. He’s seen a part of my soul no one else has. I swallow hard, a lump of emotion forming in my throat.

“Show me again.” Blaine walks to the door and turns the lock, the slide of metal against metal loud and decisive. “But don’t touch yourself.” He closes the blinds, creating a private sanctuary for the two of us. “Not until tonight.”

I kick off my ballerina flats. The carpet is soft under my bare toes. I unzip my black dress pants and they fall to the floor with a whoosh.

Blaine leans against a beige wall and watches me, his arms crossed, his eyelids partially lowered. He’s strong and powerful and, in this moment, mine.

I sit on the sharp edge of the table and unbutton my blouse slowly, in no rush to show him my bra, suspecting he’ll hate it as much as I do.

Blaine rolls a faux leather chair in front of me, sits down, and the power dynamic between us shifts. He’s no longer looming over me. He’s at my level, giving the illusion he’s attainable.

I place my bare feet on his armrests, holding the chair in place with my toes, grasping even more control. Heat radiates from him, warming the cool recirculated air.

My fingers shake as I part my blouse. I stare at the far wall, unable to face his disappointment. Maybe he’ll notice his key and nothing else.

“This is new.” Blaine’s voice lilts as though I’ve invoked his curiosity. “How does it make you feel?”

My face heats. “Fake.” I try to close my blouse. He holds onto the fabric, his fingers not touching my bare skin. “Phony. Like I’m trying to trick you.”

“You did this for me?” Blaine raises his eyebrows and I frown. How many men does he think I strip for? “Is this what you think I want?” He spreads the blouse and tugs.

I allow it to slip down my shoulders. “The saleswoman told me this is what every man wants.”

“Ahhh . . .” His smile reaches his eyes. “But I’m not every man, and you know what I want better than any saleswoman.”

“I do?” I pause, considering his words. “I do,” I repeat, realizing this is the truth. I
do
know what he wants and I’ll give it to him. I reach behind me and unhook the padded bra. It falls forward, revealing my much smaller breasts, and I release a sigh of relief, embracing the sensual brush of cool air directly on heated skin.

“Yes, this is what I want.” Blaine gazes at me, his open appreciation wetting my pussy. His cock is hard, pressing against the zipper of his dress pants, visual proof of his desire. “This is all a man could ever want.”

“Not every man.” I wiggle out of my panties, the tabletop cold on my ass.

“Not every man,” he agrees, leaning forward, his breath caressing my inner thighs, stroking without touching, back and forth, back and forth.

I want to grab his shoulders. Instead, I lower myself onto the table and stare up at the ceiling tiles, focusing on his hot breath, trying not to touch myself. My breasts ache. My pussy pulses. I groan, my need unbearable. “Is this how you feel?”

“Yes.” Blaine shifts in his seat. “You’re strong, Anna. You can control yourself.”

He’s the only person in this world who believes I’m strong, and I won’t disappoint him. I dig my fingernails into the wood veneer and count the gold specks in the tiles.