Voyeur

Voyeur

Lacey Alexander

Penguin Group USA (2007)

Rating: ****

Tags: Voyeurism, Fiction, Romance, Erotic f iction, Adult, Erotica, General

Product Description

Suf f ering f rom writer's block and with no lover to speak of , novelist Laura Watkins is in a f unk. She needs a getaway and a release. Fast. Fortunately, she f inds both in the retreat of a f riend's isolated Colorado home. It's hers and hers alone f or as long as she needs it. Then she comes upon the webcam, and her curiosity is aroused. So is her secret f antasy-to be watched by a stranger.

His screen name is Flyboy. He likes what he sees. He wants to open up f or her, too. Now, they're only one click away f rom exploring an af ter-hours game of exhibitionist and voyeur where anything goes. But now it's time to take it one step f urther-by meeting in the f lesh. This time, no rules, no limits, and absolutely nothing to come between them.

About the Author

Lacey Alexander's books have been cal ed deliciously decadent, unbelievably erotic, exceptional y arousing, blazingly sexual, and downright sinf ul. In each book, Lacey strives to take her readers on the ultimate erotic adventure and hopes her books wil encourage women to embrace their sexual f antasies.

Lacey resides in the Midwest with her husband, and when not penning romantic erotica, she enjoys history and traveling, of ten incorporating f avorite travel destinations into her work.

Voyeur

Lacey Alexander

Laura Watkins stared at the blank computer screen, her mind spinning with desperation.
Write something! Anything!
The black cursor kept blinking at her. Nothing came.

She never had writer's block—
never.

Wel , until her recent breakup with David. Even now, as she lifted her gaze to the gently fal ing snow out the window in front of her, she couldn't quite figure out why ending the relationship had affected her so severely. She'd never seen David as a stimulant to her creativity—after al , he was al

business, the quintessential suit and tie guy, the corporate icon, partner in one of Seattle's most prestigious law firms at thirty-two. Had she loved him that much? Had she loved him at al ?

You're pathetic. Twenty-nine years old, and you still don't know exactly what love is. And your promising career is going to die an early death

because you're not smart enough to sort out your emotions.

Maybe Monica was right. Over pizza and beer at Laura's apartment two weeks ago, she'd said, "It's sex. You've gotten used to it. Without it, you're just sort of . . . clogging up or something. No
sexual
release equals no
creative
release. I'm sure of it."

"That's ridiculous," she'd replied. "I wrote books before David—I can write books
after
him. And as you know, I'm not even sure why we stayed together so long."

"Because you need sex to create—it's that simple."

Monica was a graduate student going for her Ph.D. in psychology at the University of Washington and thought she knew everything about the human

mind, but in this particular instance, Laura didn't buy it. Her best friend was usual y a terrific problem-solver, but Laura just couldn't believe her
creative
flow had anything to do with her
sexual
flow.

Her real fear was that maybe she'd underestimated her feelings for David—maybe she did love him, deeply, and just wasn't recognizing it until now,

when it was too late. Another valid fear? Her next Riley Wainscott Mystery was due to her editor in less than a month, at the beginning of March, and

so far, she didn't have a plot. Or a crime. Or a criminal. Or even a good group of suspects. Al she had was her intrepid heroine, Riley Wainscott,

living with her eccentric Aunt Mimsey in a quaint New England town.

"A getaway," she'd told Monica enthusiastical y, when the idea had hit her after her second beer. "Maybe that's what I need. Just a change of scenery. A . . . retreat. Isn't that what writers do when they need to get absorbed in their work? They go on a retreat someplace quiet and secluded.

Maybe if I do something like that, so that it's just me and Riley, the story wil reveal itself."

Monica had looked skeptical. "That sounds way too simple, if you ask me."

Laura had only flashed a scowl, having truly felt she was on to something.

"And even if you real y wanted to pursue that, I see a major problem."

"Which is?"

"You're broke. And I'm just guessing, but I don't think secluded hideaways come cheap."

Laura had let out a huge sigh. Leave it to Monica to throw another crimp in her plan—even if she was right. She had, unfortunately, spent her partial

advance for the current book long ago, on things like food and shelter, and was now living off her savings account. Until she turned in the completed

novel, she had to count pennies.

She'd looked up to find Monica’s lips pursed, her eyes narrowed. "This is against my better judgment, but luckily for you, I happen to have a cousin with a vacation home in Colorado. He's always inviting me and the rest of my family to use it."

Laura lowered her chin. "So you’re saying?" This sounded good—
perfect,
even—but she didn't want to jump to conclusions.

"I'm saying I'm sure he'd be happy to let you retreat there. If you real y think it would help."

"I do, Monnie, I real y, real y do!"

Monica had delivered one of her typical superior looks. "I stil say you need a good lay way worse than you need to lock yourself up in a big, lonely house, but if this is what you real y want, girlfriend, consider it done."

Looking back on that night, Laura remembered the instant sense of relief, sureness, that this was the answer. Yet true to Monica's predictions, here

she sat, staring out on a beautiful mantle of Colorado powder through the picture window of a fabulous mountain home she had al to herself, and

Riley's story was no closer to completion than it had been in her tiny office back in Seattle.

What the hel was she going to do?

She couldn't sleep, damn it. At first, she'd thought it was worry over the book, but then she'd realized she was hot, sweating. She got up to adjust the thermostat and lay back down. Then she realized her nose, mouth, throat, were as dry as the Sahara. Altitude. She rose once more and padded to

the bathroom in her long blue cotton pj's with white and black snowflakes al over them. She drank a little water and lay back down. Pul ed the

covers up, then pushed them off.

She final y shot upright in bed in utter frustration and walked with determination toward the kitchen. She'd brought a few bottles of wine for relaxing by the fire in the evening, and now seemed like a good time to uncork one—surely a little wine would help her sleep.

She didn't bother turning on a light as she brought a glass and open bottle into the two-story living room. Instead, she just flipped on the handy gas fireplace, watched as the orange flames cast a glow across the room, then sat down on the sofa, ready for some serious relaxation.

But what if Monica was right? What if her block truly had something to do with sex? After al , she didn't real y
miss
David. She didn't miss his company, or his face, or his voice. But as she swal owed the last sip of wine in her stemmed glass and poured another, she couldn't deny that she

did miss being touched, being entered.

She'd never thought she was a highly sexual person, unlike Monica, who
lived
for sex. In fact, Monica's sexploits were a big reason Laura was able to dismiss Monica's theory so easily—her best friend was a nympho and, like Freud, thought
everything
related to sex. But as a sip of wine moved warmly down through her chest, she couldn't deny that the crux of her thighs ached at the thought of intimacy, that her breasts felt tender, sensitive.

Pushing to her feet, she moved across the room toward the same huge wal of windows she'd worked next to earlier in the day. There were no

blinds or shades, and the deep carpet of snow beyond shone silvery in the moonlight, doing its part to light the room.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one hand to her breast. Her nipple jutted through her pajama top, hard against her palm. She squeezed gently,

vaguely wishing the touch were that of a man—a bigger hand, a slightly rougher caress. She raked her thumb across the pearlized peak and felt a

whoosh of
desire sweep through her crotch.

Maybe if sex
was
the problem here, she thought as she made her way back to the couch and drained her glass a second time, she should attempt

to do something about it. Hel , for al she knew, a good orgasm
would
loose her creativity. If nothing else, it might help her sleep.

Lowering her glass to the coffee table, she raised her hands to her breasts, covering them, slowly massaging. Her pussy flooded, just from that,

She hardly ever did this—got herself off—but clearly she needed to come. She hardly ever thought of her vagina as her pussy, either, yet something

about the moment almost cal ed for it—that certain bluntness the word provided. A rose by any other name is stil a rose . . . and in the quiet stil ness of the dimly lit room where she was becoming intoxicated with wine and desire, there was no reason not to think of it that way. Just like if a man had been there—
he
would think of it that way,
so she would, too. Sometimes even
she
needed to quit being her conservative self and just act without thinking.

Unbuttoning the two top buttons of her pajamas, she reached inside, moving her left hand to her right breast. Once again, she found herself wishing

it were a masculine touch, but desperate times indeed cal ed for desperate measures.

She twirled her erect nipple between thumb and forefinger, relishing the fresh rush of blood to her cunt. Mmm, yes. Pleasure. Want. And another

dirty word. It, too, fit the moment—the raw arousal echoing through her. She
did
need this. So bad.

Stil , as she slipped her other hand between her legs, she harbored that same helpless wish—for a strong, virile, sexy man.

But stop it. Quit wishing. Quit thinking. Just do this. Rub yourself.

It took only a gentle massage to keep her pussy humming with eagerness. Maybe it was the solitude that made the self-caress easier than ever

before, the knowledge that no one else was around—it was just her and the fire and the snow. Of course, the wine had certainly helped, too. It hadn't

made her any sleepier, but it had relaxed her—way more than a mere two glasses usual y did.

That's when it hit her. Alcohol increased the effects of high altitude. No wonder she felt so . . . loopy. Pleasantly drunk. Free. To do . . . whatever.

Reaching up, she untied the drawstring at her waist and eased out of the snowflake pajama bottoms, letting them drop to the floor. She leaned back

on the sofa, legs parted, two fingers stroking through her pink cotton bikini panties. Mmm, the pleasure began to spread, echoing down through her