Page 33 of Dario DeLuca

Notification: 1:45 AM. Chicago Bedroom camera. Motion detected.

The alert includes a link to the feed. My finger hovers over the hyperlink, and I contemplate clicking it. However, I battle the warning voice that tells me to leave Mia alone and respect her privacy.

But the draw is too strong, too irresistible. Clicking on the link, I'm greeted with a live feed of the bedroom. The low flicker of the moonlight casts an ethereal glow on her exposed skin as she slips under the covers. She's so beautiful, and my desire for her only intensifies. I shouldn't be spying on her like this, but I can't help myself.

She’s already in the bed, the comforter pulled up to her neck. As if sensing my gaze, Mia tosses and turns, her body arching and contorting with discontent. She settles on her back, her head pointed to the ceiling, completely oblivious that there are eyes on her.

I wonder what she’s thinking as she bends one knee, then the other, only to drop one. Shortly after, the other knee follows, andeventually, my answer comes when her hand dips under the thin cover.

My eyes are glued to the screen as she trails her free hand along her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts, and lower still.

Is she?

Oh, yes, she is.

Through the clinical lens of surveillance, I witness the artless curve of her spine, the unguarded fall of her hair, dark against the pale expanse of her pillow. A breath escapes me, stolen by the sight of her.

The temptation coils within me, insidious and demanding. My eyes, once sharp as the edge of a blade, fixate on her form. The cameras betray nothing yet capture every secret in high definition. Her breath quickens, a silent symphony to which my pulse races an erratic accompaniment.

My cock hardens in my trousers as I watch her, imagining that she slips a digit inside herself, gasping softly in the silence of the room. Seeing her hands moving up and down, cloaked by the fabric, yet somehow still bearing it all to me.

Knowing what’s happening behind that door is enough to send me over the edge. Unable to look away, I lean back and run my palm over the tent in my slacks, my dick growing harder with every soft moan that slips past her lips. Thanks to the expensive system Rafael installed, I can see her every move vividly and hear just as well.

“Mm,” Mia mutters, low and sensual.

Dragging my hand up the front of my pants, I reach for my zipper and tug it down, then free myself through the hole in my boxer briefs. In the confines of my living room, where she can come out and catch me at any moment, I stroke myself.

Another alert comes across the screen.

Notification: 1:57 AM. Chicago Living Room camera. Motion detected.

I swipe up to clear the message and focus only on my beautiful bride-to-be. It doesn’t matter that the blanket shields her; I now know the faces and sounds she makes when pleasure calls her name. Every bite of her lower lip, every breathy moan, and the way her eyes roll to the back of her head as her body writhes off the mattress is now etched into my brain for eternity.

I grip my cock, stroking from base to tip in time with her motions on screen. I can imagine the heat, the wetness, the velvet caress of her innermost self—my desire surges with every unseen movement.

I yearn with a ferocity that startles even me. I want to be the architect of her ecstasy, to replace her hands with mine, to feel her unravel at my touch. Every part of me strains toward her, tethered only by the thin thread of a camera's gaze.

She is beauty etched in shadow, a lure that resonates deep within the marrow of my bones. The longing to claim her, to brand her as mine, throbs in time with her quickened breaths. This woman has become my obsession, my unwitting tormentor.

The air around me feels charged and electric, as though the very atmosphere anticipates the inevitable. I am lost to her, to the pull of her touch, the phantom caress that holds me captive. Mia, this woman who was never meant to matter, now consumes every fiber of my being with a hunger that borders on reverence.

And so, I study her, transfixed, as she courts bliss with every stroke, every whispered sigh. I worship at the altar of her pleasure, a silent participant in the ritual unfolding before me. The night stretches on timelessly as we chase the precipice of release, together yet worlds apart.

Mia's name is a litany, a sacred invocation that spells salvation and damnation. I long to hear her whisper it in the throes of passion, to feel her breath against my skin as she calls out to me.

With each beat of my heart, the fantasy blurs the lines of reality, painting a picture so vivid I can almost taste the sweetness of her lips and feel the heat of her body pressed against mine.

I breathe into the quiet of my fortress, a confession spoken to the night. My grip tightens, movements growing urgent as I chase the phantom of her touch, the specter of her pleasure that haunts me.

White hot passion builds within me, a crescendo threatening to break free. And in the fortress of my solitude, where darkness meets desire, I find myself at the mercy of a woman who doesn't even know she holds the power to bring me to my knees.

“Mm. Dario.” My name sounds like heaven coming from her.

The groan that leaves me is guttural, a sound I barely recognize as my own. My breath catches, trapped within the confines of my chest.

"Fuck," the word is a prayer, a curse, torn from my lips as I witness the rise and fall of her chest, the arch of her back.

She calls out to me again, her voice laden with longing and raw desire. With that, I throw my head back, surrendering to the storm. I allow her name to etch itself into my soul, branding me as surely as any ink that adorns my skin.

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