I Spy Voyeurism in This Book
I've always been one of those people who will say, Oh, I don't think voyeurism would work for me. Personally. Not my thing. But then I end up writing a voyeuristic scene and I go: Oh! I get it! Now I remember why people get off on this stuff.
There's voyeurism-on-purpose in Restricted Release and then, quite a hot scene, where the voyeurism is quite accidental. Until...ya know...Clara should turn away and stop watching but doesn't.
What is it about watching someone when they don't know it that's such a turn-on? Is it that they're vulnerable? Not putting on the face that most of us put on when we go out into the world? That we simply should not be looking?
Probably all of the above. All I can say is, Clara never considered herself very voyeuristic. Until she was a faced with this:
Nothing screws with your head like waking up in the dark without being able to remember actually falling asleep. I rolled to my belly. Six p.m. Streetlights threw white discs of light onto my bedroom wall. I heard a gentle tapping and realized it was rain—maybe even sleet—hitting my house.
“What the hell?”
I remembered being sprawled on the bed in a patch of sun and talking to Cat. I remembered hanging up and lying there, my mind playing over every slate-colored shade in the pencil sketch Matt had done of me. And then I must have dozed off. Since becoming single, my sleep usually came in violent fits and starts. We wrestled each other until sleep usually won and I went down fighting.
This time it seemed to have settled on me like a soft blanket. Another oddity for this strange day.
I climbed to my feet and my stomach rumbled. I was hungry. Really hungry. But first I had to pee. A spur-of-the-moment nap will do that to a girl. In the bathroom, I took care of business and washed my hands and face. Braiding my hair, I caught a flash of motion from the bathroom’s floor-to-ceiling window. When I peeked I saw a naked, toned Matt Millen stepping out of his shower. The man had no curtains yet.
“Score,” I whispered softly and laughed at myself. But I didn’t even pause to consider. I simply cut the lights and stepped up to the tall thick-glassed window.
Matt was a work of art himself. His back and shoulders were expansive and muscular. He sported some seriously cut arms and a chest that made me emit a little inadvertent sigh. Water glistened on his super-short hair and he ran his towel over it just once to dry it.
I shifted on my feet, the attraction I felt for him beating a steady rhythm in me. I was wet, I realized, and it gave an urgency to my emotions I hadn’t felt for a long while. Wanting him wasn’t just an abstract feeling at the moment. It was a true need. My gut instinct was to march over there and jump Matt like a crazy sex maniac.
“A sex pervert,” I snickered. Which was what Cat had always said when we were growing up and dating a new guy. I hope he’s not a sex pervert.
Only I was pretty sure—after a super-long dry spell and the bizarre instant attraction to this new man—that I was sort of hoping he was a sex pervert.
A kinky, kinky sex pervert…
He turned in profile toward his medicine cabinet and toweled off. His cock was semi-hard and impressive. These houses feel close together by nature, but you don’t know how close they really are until a moment like this one.
I used to joke with Mrs. Desalvo that if she ran out of toilet paper I could hand her a roll in a pinch. Now a nude man who I lusted after was in Mrs. D’s bathroom with a semi-erection. He felt no more than a gnat’s ass away from me.
It seemed utterly natural when I slipped my hand into my jeans and found my clit. It had been ages since I’d had sex but it has also been about a month since I’d even gotten myself off. And now—now my runaway pulse told me—I needed to get myself off. I needed an orgasm. It felt like a bare-bones necessity; it was as simple as that.
Like I said, I'll tell you I'm not a voyeur. I don't really get it. It's not my thing. But if I passed an open window with a tempting view do I really think I’d look away?
Should I? Yes. But should and would are two different things, now aren't they?
Copyright © SOMMER MARSDEN, 2013
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
Clara is the recovering anorexic who’s nearly become a shut-in after the end of her emotionally abusive marriage. Matt is the new boy next door. Graphic artist, nice guy, funny…accepting of Clara. She wants him, he wants her—but Clara is afraid.
Nadia is the stand-in—Matt’s idea, Clara’s challenge to accept. A longtime friend of Matt’s, she’s a sexual surrogate intended to guide Clara until she’s not afraid of Matt’s desire for her or hers for him. Twosomes become threesomes, watching becomes touching and lust becomes love.
When Matt moved in next door, lust was the last thing Clara expected. Two lovers never crossed her mind. And the need to make a choice was something she thought she’d never encounter. But she’s bolder now, healing, and everything has changed. And a choice must be made, no matter how hard.
Inside scoop: Clara’s healing includes a hot woman who wants to show her how desirable she is, as well as f/m/f menagés.
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Sommer Marsden’s been called “…one of the top storytellers in the erotica genre” (Violet Blue), “Unapologetic” (Alison Tyler), “…the whirling dervish of erotica” (Craig J. Sorensen),and “Erotica royalty…” (Lucy Felthouse).
Her erotic novels include Restricted Release, Restless Spirit, Boys Next Door, and Learning to Drown. Sommer currently writes erotica and erotic romance for Xcite Books, eXcessica, Ellora’s Cave, Pretty Things Press, Resplendence Publishing and Mischief Books. The wine-swigging, dachshund-owning, wannabe runner author writes work that runs the gamut from bondage to zombies to humor.
Sommer’s short works can be found in well over one hundred (and counting) erotic anthologies. Her short stories have also been included numerous adult and romance magazines–both in print and online.Visit her at Unapologetic Fiction http://sommermarsden.blogspot.com