Page 75 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I keep watching, unable to look away or deny how seeing her bare legs and those curves is drawing my entire focus.

She drapes herself across the couch with a grace that makes my thoughts stumble over themselves. The silk robe rides up as she stretches, and I swallow a slight groan at the flash of black panties. She lights a candle and then grabs her book off the coffee table and cracks it open.

The way she's lounging is more seductive than she probably realizes.

I swallow again, shifting in my seat as the inferno in my body travels down my abs and stirs something in my groin.

This isn't right. What the hell am I doing? It feels like a violation, watching her like this for reasons that have nothing to do with her safety.

I force myself to look away, and I open the poetry book again. I try to read a line but it might as well be a foreign language; the living room camera view suddenly feels massive in my periphery. Unfortunately, I can't just switch it off, not when it's the main feed and anything could happen at any moment.

After failing to comprehend another poem because, suddenly, I can't read English, I turn my attention to the other screens, cycling through them. Hallway, windows, door, exterior, hallway, windows, door, exterior. All quiet and empty.

I peek again at the living room out of reflex or stupidity; I'm not sure which. Her knee is bent now, pushing the robe higher and fully exposing those lace panties. The sight sets fire to every attempt at rational thought. She's oblivious, lost in her book, while I'm unraveling at the seams.

I finally click the feed off. I'm not going to bethatguy, no matter how much I fucking want her.

And I want her a lot, something I didn't fully get until this moment.

This isn't good.

Another glance at the clock: 12:30 AM. Ninety minutes until Mike takes his turn on watch duty and releases me from this torment. But, hey, who's counting?

I know I'm going to need to check that camera feed again shortly, and I pray Londyn is somehow back in her room. Or under a blanket. Wearing fifty sweaters would do the trick.

My phone buzzes, bursting the silence and making me jump. Reflexively, I check it.

Londyn:How's it going? You have the shift tonight, right?

I exhale slowly, forcing my fingers to type some kind of reasonable response. She's thrown me off my game, and I'm not used to that.

Me:Yeah. All good. You okay?

She doesn't reply immediately, so I give it a minute.

Trying to shake my restlessness, I return to the book and manage a few more lines before setting it down with a defeated sigh.

Two minutes pass with no response.

I glance again at the active feeds. The hallway is still clear. Windows good. There's a couple walking by outside.

Three minutes.

Me:All good?

She just messaged so she must have her phone nearby. I wait another anxious minute before the concern wins and I switch the living room feed on to make sure she's okay.

My lungs instantly stop working.

Londyn is safe, perfectly safe, but she has shifted on the couch and I'm half wondering if I bought the wrong tea and it's giving me hallucinations.

The silk robe barely covers her now, only her midsection. She's wearing a black lace bra and her legs are spread wide with a small pillow propped on her stomach. And—Jesus fuck—she's rubbing herself through her panties. Her head is tipped back, lips parted in what I imagine is a moan.

I can't stop my cock from twitching.

I can barely think or make sense of this. She knows I'm watching; she just messaged.

My cock twitches again when my scattered thoughts finally regroup and I realize something major: this is intentional. Seems obvious, but I've been struggling to think with my brain and not… other parts.

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