Page 3 of Closer Than You Think
It confuses me, but I can’t ignore it. I tried to, for a solid month after first laying eyes on her. I tried to put her out of my mind, focus on work. When that wasn’t successful, I called the city’s most exclusive Madame and had her send over whore after whore to take care of me in every way I could imagine. That didn’t work, either.
So here I am, allowing myself a glimpse into a world I can never be a part of.
But I can watch.
I blend with the shadows, skirting the fringes of Hallie's apartment. The cool metal of the fire escape bites into my palms as I ascend, each step calculated, each breath controlled. My pulse thrums—a predator's rhythm—synced to the flickering streetlights that cast an eerie glow on the climb ahead.
Reaching the second floor, I find my vantage point: a window slightly ajar, curtains fluttering like a siren's veil. Through it, the dark outline of Hallie's sanctuary beckons, her silhouette a smoky apparition against the faint light seeping from the living room. She moves with an unconscious grace, oblivious to the eyes that devour her every motion.
There's a tension in me, a taut wire stretched to the brink by her mere presence. I watch, entranced, as she peels away layers of fabric, each revealing more of her soft, moonlit skin. For a moment, I think she will stay just like that, naked and on displayfor my weary eyes. For my eyes alone. My throat constricts as desire coils within, primal and insistent.
But then she pulls on a tank top and a pair of shorts. She looks comfortable, relaxed, and a part of me thinks it’s even hotter than when she’s naked. I imagine my own hands reaching under the clothes, groping every inch of her. Instead, I grope my own cock, feeling its hard length under my jeans.
The darkness is kind, shrouding my sins as my mind conjures the taste of her, the feel of her beneath me. Hallie St. James is the enigma that haunts my dreams. She’s only beyond my reach because of the relentless control I force upon myself. If I were my true self, I would have broken through this window months ago and taken what’s mine.
I don’t hold back because of some noble idea or because I’m really good underneath it all. No. I hold back because of self-preservation. I learned how to control myself . . . my urges . . . at a young age. The only reason I’m the head of my own security company and not serving a life sentence, or decaying in a prison cemetery, is because of that control.
Still, she stirs a hunger that won't be tamed.
I quietly unzip my jeans, taking my throbbing cock in my fist.
Hallie's silhouette retreats from the bedroom and settles onto the couch, the fabric sighing beneath her. The glow of a lamp bathes her in soft light, her hair a dark waterfall over her shoulders.
I jerk myself, slowly at first, watching every slight movement, every deep breath.
I try to tell myself to stop, but my body rebels, thrumming with a need that defies discipline. Hallie’s slim fingers dance across pages—lesson plans, perhaps—and my mind traces the curve of her wrist, yearning to replace her pen with my touch.
She leans back, eyes closed, lost in thought. It's then, the fantasy takes over completely, uncoiling like smoke through my veins. I imagine whispering darkness into her ear, guiding her hand, our breaths mingling as shadows play across her delicate features.
“Fuck,” I mutter, the word blending with the distant hum of Alcott City's restless heart. Restraint crumbles; my hand moves of its own accord, seeking release from this torment. My pulse drums in my ears, each beat a reminder of the line I cross, the sacred space I violate with my presence.
I watch her, and as I come, the world narrows to just Hallie and the aching fulfillment she inspires. For those seconds, I am both master and slave, orchestrating my own undoing at the thought of her.
Release comes like a thief in the night, swift and silent. I watch as ropes of my cum shoot onto the brick wall beneath her window. I mark it as my territory.
Mine.
I'm left gasping, the cool metal of the fire escape a stark contrast to the heat coursing through me as I tuck myself back into my pants. Shame and satisfaction bleed together, an addictive poison in my veins.
I want to stay longer. I want to watch her all night. I want to climb through the window and fuck her within an inch of her life. But that’s reckless, and I have work to do.
With a final glance, I commit her image to memory—my serene angel amidst chaos—and descend the ladder.
The street embraces me once more, its shadows a cloak around my sins. I slip away unnoticed, the ghost of what I've done clinging to me like a second skin.
I can breathe again. But only for a little while.
Two
Hallie
Iweave through the maze of desks, my heart thrumming with a familiar blend of excitement and purpose. The air is alive with the sound of pencils scratching against paper and the faint hum of adolescent concentration. This is where I belong—among these eager minds, within these four walls I’d carefully adorned with colorful posters about Dickinson and Frost and Shakespeare.
“Remember, folks, 'To be or not to be' isn't just Hamlet's question. It's yours in every choice you make,” I say, tapping on the faded poster as I pass it.
A hand shoots up from the back row, and I can't help but smile at the earnestness etched on Jenny's face. “Ms. St. James, can you help me with this metaphor? I don't get what the raven has to do with grief.”
“Of course, Jenny.” My steps are quick but measured as I reach her side. I lean down, my fingers tracing the lines of Edgar Allan Poe's verse she's scribbled down.
