BABY

☆SIMON'S POV☆

☆☆☆☆☆☆

He stood in the narrow service passage behind the wall with one eye to the viewing hole, hand already wrapped around himself before she even finished.

Timing mattered.

So did ritual.

He had cut that hole ten years ago after the first woman taught him that locks were clumsy things and doors gave too much warning. Since then, he had widened the passage, soundproofed sections of it, sanded rough edges smooth, and learned exactly where to stand for the best angle into Room Seven. Practice turned shame into craftsmanship if you gave it enough years.

Beyond the wall, Connie lay tangled in the sheets wearing an oversized shirt she had taken from her own bag, damp hair loose around her shoulders, one knee bent beneath the blanket while her hand moved between her thighs with the lazy confidence of someone used to pleasing herself better than others could.

He matched her pace.

Slow when she was slow.

Firmer when her hips lifted.

His breath stayed measured through habit alone.

Most women were different alone than they were watched, though they never knew enough to notice it. They became smaller in private. Softer. Self-conscious even in solitude. They covered themselves instinctively, apologized to empty rooms with their posture, moved like their own bodies required permission.

Not her.

Connie touched herself like ownership was the only language worth speaking. No hesitation. No embarrassment. No performance for imaginary eyes. She chased her own pleasure directly, lips parting as her breathing deepened, thighs opening wider against the sheets as if the room itself belonged to her.

That changed things.

He had expected another tired traveler. Another passing appetite. Another body to catalogue and choose from later.

Instead she arrived whole.

No need to lure her inside. No need to drag fear through hallways. No need to break anything before beginning.

She came to him.

He stroked himself harder, gaze fixed to the small movements of her body, the tension building visibly through her stomach and legs. When her head tipped back and a low sound escaped her throat, something hot and reverent moved through him.

Ten years.

Ten years of women arriving by chance, mistake, weather, loneliness.

And still surprise remained possible.

His release came just as hers did, quiet and controlled into the towel prepared in his free hand, his jaw tightening to keep the sound in his chest where it belonged. On the other side of the wall, she went loose into the bed, satisfied and shining faintly in the lamplight.

He cleaned himself with practiced efficiency, folded the towel inward, and placed it in the laundry bin beside the shelf.

Then he returned to the hole for one more look.

She smiled to herself in the dark and murmured something he couldn’t fully hear.

He hoped it was gratitude.