I was already at the window when I saw movement across the street.

The morning light caught the flash of a grey suit as Mark came out first, looking like he hadn’t slept. Stress was written all over his face, the kind of look a man gets when he’s failing at everything that matters.

I smirked, watching him fumble with his briefcase.

Fucking loser.

Then Stella appeared behind him and my breath caught in my throat.

Jesus Fucking Christ!

She was wearing these tiny shorts that were were cut high enough to make a preacher sweat showing off every inch of those long, toned legs. The red t-shirt she had on was stretched tight across her tits, the fabric clinging to every curve like it was painted on. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, swishing as she moved, and fuck, it made her look like a fucking teenager.

Fresh.

Innocent.

The kind of sweet that makes a man want to corrupt her.

A man like me.

I felt the familiar, heavy throb between my legs as I stared at her. My cock stirred, thickening against my thigh as I imagined those legs wrapped around my waist, digging into my back.

She was perfect.

My cock started to twitch in my pyjamas just watching her.

Then I saw her face.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, puffy. She looked up at Mark with this desperate, pleading expression and my stomach twisted.

The cat. It had to be the cat. She was hurting, and that useless husband of hers was probably too wrapped up in his own bullshit to give a fuck.

I watched them kiss. His arm went around her waist, pulling her close and my hands closed into fists as a surge of pure fucking rage bolted through me He didn’t deserve to touch her. He didn’t deserve to have his hands on that body, to feel her pressed against him.

I wanted to break his fucking arm just for putting it there.

He said something to her, probably some empty reassurance. Stella nodded, wiping at her eye with the back of her hand. She looked small. Fragile. It made me want to rush over there and wrap her in my arms, and it also made me want to pin her against the doorframe and fuck the sadness out of her. I watched him kiss her again before getting in his car. The engine started, and he drove off without looking back.

Good. Go make the money, Marky boy and leave the real work to me.

Fucking idiot.

Stella stood there for a moment, watching him go, and then she turned and went back inside. I stayed at the window, my eyes fixed on her door, my hand drifting down to stroke my cock which was getting harder by the minute.

Read more

The alarm on my phone buzzes at 6:15 AM, but I’m already awake. I’ve been awake since 4, lying in this unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until she emerges. The coffee I made is cold now, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m at the window by 6:20, binoculars pressed to my face, waiting.

The porch light clicks on at 6:33.

There she is.

She comes out in a silk robe, pale blue, tied loose at the waist. Her hair is messy, sleep-tangled, and she yawns as she bends down to grab the newspaper. The robe gapes open just enough for me to see the curve of her tits, the shadow between them.

My cock hardens instantly, pressing against my sweatpants.

Fuck!

I don’t touch it yet. I wanna watch first.

She stretches, looking up at the sky, and for one fucking terrifying second, I swear she looks directly at my window. My heart stops. But then she just scratches her nose and goes back inside, closing the door behind her.

I exhale.

She doesn’t know. Not yet. But she will.

Read more

Marcus is good. Marcus always does good.

The text comes through at 11:47 PM. I’m in the hotel bar, nursing a scotch, watching my phone like a fucking hawk.

783 Magnolia Lane. Bought the house three weeks ago. Husband’s name is Mark Grant 26, works in marketing (I don’t give a fuck about him)

Stella Grant, 25, freelance photographer. No kids. No pets. Clean file.

I grin into my glass as I type out a response.

“Send me the address again”

He does and I memorise it placing it carefully into the deep recesses of my mind.

The next morning, I check out of the hotel. Even though I can easily afford to have a driver I prefer to drive myself. My black Range Rover has tinted windows, and is pretty inconspicuous compared to the other cars I drive.

I grimace as I reach Magnolia Lane. It’s is a quiet street, tree-lined, the kind of neighbourhood where people wave at their neighbours and leave their fucking pumpkins out past Thanksgiving.

Number 783 is a two-story colonial. White shutters. A porch swing. The kind of house that screams “we’re building a life together.”

She should be building a life with me, I have a lot more to offer than her husband.

I park three blocks away, walk back with a coffee, and find a bench under a big oak tree a hat pulled low over my face as I pretend to read a newspaper.

It gave me a perfect sightline to their front door.

Nothing happens for two hours.

Then she comes out.

My heart starts to race like a fucking freight train.

Stella.

She’s in yoga pants and a tank top, hair in a messy bun. She bends over to pick up the mail and I watch those yoga pants stretch tight over her juicy ass.

Fucking gorgeous.

I let out a groan and my cock twitches. I shift on the bench.

She goes back inside.

I stay until dusk.

That night, I’m in my car again. Parked down the street, engine off, windows cracked. The lights in their house are warm. I can see shadows moving behind the curtains.

Then a light flicks on.

First floor. Corner room. Their curtains are cheap thin, white, the kind that don’t hide shit.

I pull out my binoculars.

Hubby is already shirtless. She comes in behind him, wearing nothing but a silk robe. He pulls her close.

They kiss.

I undo my zipper.

Read more

Money.

It’s the only thing in this world that doesn’t lie. It doesn’t cheat, it doesn’t apologize, and most importantly, it buys silence. I’ve spent almost thirty years accumulating enough of it to ensure that I never have to hear the word “no” unless I’m in the mood to ruin someone’s day.

I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the Presidential Suite at the Grand Chateau, nursing a glass of scotch that cost more than most people make in a week. The city lights below were a sea of meaningless gold and white, but I wasn’t looking at them. I was looking at the building across the street.

To be more specific, the room directly opposite mine.

I had requested this specific suite, bribed the manager three times the going rate just to evict the previous occupant, because I’d seen them check in. A young couple. Couldn’t be older than twenty-five. The girl, a brunette with an ass that could stop traffic, and her husband, some blond, clean-cut prick who probably thought working out three times a week made him a man.

They had no idea I was there. The tinted glass on my side was a one-way mirror into their lives.

“Happy fucking anniversary to me,” I muttered, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.

I set the drink down on the mahogany side table and reached for the binoculars resting on the velvet cloth. I adjusted the focus, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope before snapping sharply into clear, high definition.

There they were. The lights in their room were blazing bright. No modesty. No shame. They wanted the world to see fucking them, or maybe they were just too stupid to remember to close the drapes.

She was on the bed. On all fours.

Fuck!!

I felt the blood rush southward, immediate and demanding. For a few seconds I felt my throat close and I couldn’t fucking breathe as I zoomed in. Her back was arched, that delicious spine dipping low before rising to the curve of her hips. Her skin looked pale and smooth against the dark duvet.

The husband was behind her, his hands gripping her waist, fingers digging into her flesh, his jaw slack as he as he pounded into her with a force that I could only admire.

I could practically hear the slap of skin against skin from here.

My cock was hardening by the second as I watched them.

“Yes,” I hissed, adjusting myself through my tailored trousers. “Just like that.”

Her head was turned toward the window, toward me, though I knew she couldn’t see past the glare of her own room. Her mouth was open, a silent ‘O’ of ecstasy, her eyes squeezed shut as she took him. She looked like a goddess getting exactly what she needed.

I unbuckled my belt and undid the button of my trousers before lowering the zipper, letting them drop to the floor. As I stepped out of them, my cock was straining against the fabric of my silk boxers.

“Look at you,” I whispered, pulling my boxers down and letting my cock which was damp with precum spring free. “Taking it like a good little girl.”

Read more