When A Guy Watches Your Every Move Novels & Stories

Standing close behind her. Protective. Possessive. The image froze for a second. Then zoomed in slowly. On his hand. Still resting lightly at her waist. Her breath hitched. “Turn it off,” she said. No one moved fast enough. The screen flickered again— And a message appeared across it: Look how easily he touches you. Her stomach dropped. “This isn’t just about control,” she whispered. “They’re watching us.” “They’re studying us,” Adrian corrected. The words sent a chill down her spine.

Still, he nodded, swallowing a sigh. The guy grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the small dance floor. The music wasn’t loud, but the beat thumped slow and heavy. Lukas barely swayed, just enough to keep the guy interested as hands started roaming again, over his back, his waist, too low to be subtle. He let it happen. Let himself be touched. But his eyes still drifted toward that corner now and then. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still being watched.

I tried to laugh, but my stomach tightened instead. The man didn’t look away when our eyes met again. He didn’t even pretend to. His gaze held mine as if he’d been waiting for me to notice. Blue nudged my elbow. “Who looks at someone like that? He hasn’t blinked in a full minute. Maybe he recognizes you?” “Great,” I muttered. “Another spectator.” “Hmm-mm. I don't think that's a spectator’s stare. That’s a predator’s focus.” Her words sent a chill down my spine. I looked away, pretending to study the ring of condensation on my glass. But the pull was there: the strange, electric awareness of being watched.

My body gave in to the intriguing pleasure before I could. God, why am I thinking about this? He is a very dangerous man and he is lusting after you. He put three cigars inside you, have you forgotten that? That's disturbing. He has been watching you. Sneaking into your room. God, he gave you time to get ready for him to touch you. Who does that? I rubbed my arms again as I moved my eyes to the CCTV. He must be watching me now, right? It is not midnight yet.

Now it's all I need. He watches me. Not in a creepy way. Not in a way that makes me want to hide. In a way that makes my skin tingle. In a way that makes me forget what I'm saying mid-sentence. In a way that makes me feel seen. Truly seen. Completely seen. He watches me like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at. Like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. Like I'm the missing piece he's been searching for. Like I'm the home he's been trying to find. Like I'm the reason he's still breathing. Like I'm the only thing that's ever made sense.

A net, cast daily, checked for anything that had been caught. Then the physical reminders. His hand at my lower back steering me in rooms, not the familiar possessive brand of social events but something more deliberate, more frequent, a daily recalibration of my coordinates. His fingers closing briefly over my wrist when I reached for something he had not indicated I should reach for. The way his eyes would go flat and cold in public when I spoke with too much animation to someone he had not approved, followed by private corrections so quiet and so precise they did not leave marks anyone else could see. He was watching me.

“That is nay true. He watches you always. He leaves ye to do as ye please, but he watches.” “He watches every woman.” “He is alert to the whole room, but his eyes do not track other lasses as they track you and he smiles each time you look at him.” “He is happy, always.” “Not always. But he certainly is whenever he has your attention, so I can see why you would think so. It is rare for a man to be so taken with a woman who is nay intimate with him.” Isobel tensed. “Do nay worry, lass” Fann continued, “I am likely the only one who knows.”

He smiled uncontrollably when listening to me until I mentioned the moving subject. I noticed a brief hesitation in his smile when it appeared back on his lips. Since I lived where I had to be constantly on alert, I picked up some habits. One of them was over-observation. I would notice too many details and think about them. In his case, I really didn’t want to dissect every action he took, but I couldn’t help it. It was obvious there was more to know about the outside world than I had gathered.

“And you keep doubting it.” “That’s because you tense up every time I move,” he said, standing. I didn’t step back, That was a mistake. He stopped a foot away from me. Not crowded. Not touching. Just close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to keep eye contact. “You don’t like being watched,” he said quietly. I held his gaze. “And yet you keep doing it.” “Someone has to,” he replied. “You look like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.”

He obviously knew I could touch him, which was why he went through all this trouble of getting a ring that was customized just for me and getting clothes in my size… And surprisingly, it didn't freak me out like it was supposed to. That was what fucking scared me. “If you’re done watching me, could you go back inside and leave me alone?” He’d been watching me for a while. At first, I hadn’t noticed, but then, I’d felt it. That prickly feeling that someone was watching your every move. Only, it didn’t feel uneasy. Excitement hummed through my veins, and warmth pooled at the bottom of my stomach.