I’ve managedto keep my distance from Sasha for a few days now. My knee is acting up, which tells me there’s a storm brewing.
When I pull into my driveway, I see her blue Mazda and can’t help but wonder how her day was.
Shaking my head, I go inside, toss my keys in the bowl by the door and kick off my boots. My knee is killing me.
Grabbing an ice pack from the freezer, I wrap it in a dish towel, and settle on the couch to catch the last half of the baseball game.
After a quick dinner of leftover Chinese and a couple of beers, I flip through channels until my eyes start to get heavy. More than ready to crash, I shut off the TV and limp upstairs.
As I walk into my room, a flash of movement catches my eye. When I look over to see what it is, I freeze, breath catching in my throat.
Curtains open, Sasha is standing directly across from me in front of her bedroom window. All I can do is stare, mesmerized, as she reaches up to undo her ponytail.
I should look away. I know I should. But the waterfall of fireflowing down her back has me mesmerized. I can’t seem to make myself move as she turns, showcasing the curve of her hips.
The soft light from her bedside lamp casts a golden glow over her skin as she tugs her T-shirt over her head, revealing a pale blue bra.
My mouth instantly goes dry.
“Fuck,” I croak, my cock hardening as she reaches behind her back to unclasp it.
The rational part of my brain is telling me to close my curtains, give her some privacy. But the other part—the part that loves nothing more than to lead me around by my dick—has me drifting closer to the window instead. All I can do is watch, transfixed as she slides the straps down her arms and tosses the bra onto a nearby chair.
Damn, her breasts are perfect. Full and shaped like perfect teardrops, her rosy nipples are peaked from what I can only guess must be the cool air drifting through her open window. It hits me hard when I recall exactly how soft and firm they felt in my hands, how sweet those nipples tasted on my tongue.
When she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and starts to push them down her hips, I finally snap out of my trance. This isn’t right. I shouldn’t be watching her like this, no matter how bad I want to.
Looking away, I catch sight of my sketchbook sitting on my nightstand. Drawing has always been my way of processing things—trauma, emotions, memories. And right now, I have a visceral need to capture her on paper before she leaves my line of sight.
Grabbing the chair from the corner, I drag it over to the middle of the room and take a seat next to the window. It gets me much closer than it would sitting on the end of my bed.
I start by sketching the graceful curve of her neck, the slopeof her shoulders and the swell of her breasts, adding the subtle definition of her collarbone.
Next comes the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips as she steps out of her jeans, which leaves her in nothing but a pair of lacy blue panties, a perfect match to her discarded bra.
Her body is a goddamn work of art—strong and firm—yet soft in all the right places. The muscles in her legs have that subtle definition one only gets from years of working out.
My eyes trail down her flat stomach, snagging on a small tattoo on her hip that I didn’t get to see that night in the alley. It’s something delicate that I can’t quite make out.
Hurrying, I try to capture every detail as I continue to draw. Her hair falls across her bare shoulder as she stretches her arms above her head, arching her back in the sexiest stretch I’ve ever seen. The motion makes her breasts lift, and I nearly snap my pencil in half as my dick presses painfully against my zipper.
Then she turns, giving me a full view of her back and the elegant line of her spine. My heart skips when I see she has dimples just above the curve of her ass and my hand moves of its own accord, shading and defining, trying to do as much justice as I can to the perfection I’m witnessing through the window next door.
When she hooks her thumbs into her panties and slowly slides them down her legs, I have to bite my lip to stifle a groan as she bends over, gifting me with a view of the pink line of her bare pussy. Her ass is just as spectacular—round and firm with just the right amount of bounce.
I watch, transfixed, as she steps out, kicking them aside.
Fuck me. I’m hard as a rock.
Fully naked now and completely unaware I’m following her every move, she heads in the direction of her bathroom. The last glimpse I get is of her perfect silhouette against the soft light before she disappears from view.
Blowing out a breath, I keep my gaze focused on her window for a moment longer, hoping she’ll show herself again, then down at my sketch. It’s rough, but it captures her essence and strength, the grace of her body and the confidence in her posture.
I’ve drawn hundreds of nudes in my life, if not more, but none have ever affected me like this.
A few minutes later, her bedroom light switches off. Almost immediately, the first drops of rain begin to patter, as if the universe is trying to tell me to cool the fuck off.
Closing my sketchbook, I put it back on my nightstand, then adjust myself in my shorts with a wince. Taking a deep breath, I flop back on my bed and stare blindly at the ceiling.