When A Guy Watches Your Every Move Novels & Stories

He watches how Damos leans toward me when he talks. I feel all of it. I keep eating and I keep smiling. I keep my voice steady when I answer questions about the celebration and the food and the weather but inside, I am tracking his eyes the way I would track a predator in the woods. I lift my glass to take a drink. His eyes follow the movement. I set the glass down. His eyes follow that too. I turn my head and look directly at him. He does not look away. His eyes are narrow and patient, the kind of watching that is not casual. He is not embarrassed to be caught. He wants me to know he is looking.

I tried hard not to look at him, but I couldn't resist the temptation, so I peered, and there he was, reading the proposals we filed yesterday before the shift ended. I had the freedom to watch his every movement because he wasn't looking in my direction, from the way he caressed his chin when deep in contemplation, to the way he grimaced when he read something he didn't agree on, to the way his adams' apple moved when he drank his water. I was so engrossed with observing his every movement that I didn't notice him looking at me. "Shoot!" When I noticed a knowing look on his face while looking at me, I swiftly diverted my eyes and returned to my computer.

I didn’t rush—not because I wanted to tease him, but because I could feel his attention, sharp and predatory, like he could see every single movement I made, like his pale eyes could see through every layers of clothes I had on. His head was tilted slightly, his lips parted, and that faint smile curved along his mouth. That slow, knowing, devastatingly gorgeous smile. As if he could see me. As if he knew how bare I was getting for him. As if he could see what made me. I peeled my top off next. I could feel his gaze move with the motion of my hands, like a caress of its own. Hell, it felt like I was being watched even without his eyes. Enzo was watching every movement I made, calculating ever

They didn't just look at me; they searched me. He ordered one black coffee and sat there for hours, watching every move I made. I could feel his gaze like a physical weight on my skin. When I leaned over to pick up a fallen napkin, I felt his eyes track the curve of my waist and the swell of my hips. It made my breath hitch. He wasn't even trying to be subtle. He watched me steam the milk, he watched me ring up customers, and he watched me every time I tucked a stray hair behind my ear. So uncomfortable. Intentionally watching me. "He's doing it again," I whispered to my friend, Maya. I was shaking as I wiped down the counter for the tenth time. "The guy in the corner. He hasn't looked away

"Yes, actually I know how to fan dance and even had a few acts involving fans." "Of course you did," he nods. "If you don't mind, I thought we might watch a little show or two while we go over our terms. You see," he leans in and whispers conspiratorily, "I don't like touching any of the girls here, but I do love to watch." I give him a small smile. It's funny how a guy like him thinks that being a watcher makes him somehow superior to being one of the people doing the touching.

More watchful. When we are together, he never lets it spill onto me. He smiles the same. Talks the same. Touches me the same. But his eyes move constantly, tracking reflections, shadows, people who linger a second too long. His body always positions itself just slightly between me and whatever space we enter. He thinks I do not notice. I notice everything.

“Show up late, make a scene, and run him off.” He shrugged with the kind of nonchalance that made her suspicious. “I kissed my mate. If that’s a scene, I’ll happily create one every day.” “You’re impossible,” she muttered, cheeks flushed from the attention and the implication. “Only for you.” His fingers trailed lightly along her waist, teasing. “And I told you before—I see everything.” She narrowed her eyes. “So you were watching.” “I always watch when it comes to you,” he said, dipping his head to kiss the corner of her mouth again. “Especially when another male forgets who you belong to.”

The back of my neck prickles with the feeling of being watched, but I don’t have to turn and look to see who it is. It’s him. It’s always him. He watches me just as much, if not even more, as I watch him. Because I do watch him, even when I don’t mean to. I’ll be thinking about something, not even paying attention, and then the next thing I know, my eyes are locked on him and I’m tracking his every movement, analyzing everything about him. When he watches me, it doesn’t appear to be out of curiosity, but because of the pull. The longing that I find in his eyes when I catch him looking is clear as day.

Not at first. Then he did. Turning slightly to look at me. “You don’t understand the situation you’re in,” he said. “And you do?” “Yes.” That confidence It was irritating. And convincing at the same time. “Then explain it,” I said. He studied me for a moment, like he was deciding how much to say. Then he stepped closer. “You’re being watched,” he said. “I already know that.” “Not just by me.” My chest tightened slightly. “What does that mean?”