He Sees You When You’re Sleeping: A Dark and Steamy Holiday Romance of Obsession and Secrets – Where Desire Meets Danger in the Heart of NYC

I know I promised myself that I’d confess my stalking ways to Chloe today, but when morning comes . . . I can’t. I’m not ready to let her go. Not just yet.

Does that make me a monster? Maybe.

Does it make me the villain in the story? I hope not.

But when I woke up today, I had two choices. Go to her house and confess, or log onto the secret camera and watch her work from home.

Since I’m staring at my computer right now, mesmerized by Chloe’s every move, it’s obvious what choice won.

As Chloe stretches in her chair, I lean closer to the screen. She’s wearing the black sweater I love, the one that brings out her eyes. I imagine I can smell her fruity shampoo through the pixels, that I can feel the warmth of her body as it innocently brushes up against me.

On screen, Chloe stands and walks out of frame. I hold my breath until she returns, coffee mug in hand.

This has to stop. I know it does. I’ve always known it. But not today. Today, I’ll watch a little longer. Tomorrow, I’ll be brave. Tomorrow, I’ll face the consequences.

She’s done with her live, and I’m hoping she’s in the mood to log into Dark Secrets. I considered messaging her earlier, but I want her to be the one that reaches out. Today, I want her to make the first move.

As if on cue, a notification pops up on my screen. Chloe has logged into Dark Secrets. My heart races as I switch tabs, eager to see what she’ll say. Will she confide in me today? Share another intimate detail of her life? Confess some deep and erotic fantasies that I can only hope to give?

I wait, fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to respond. But minutes tick by, and she remains silent. I switch back to looking at the nanny cam footage to see if she’s changed her mind, perhaps wresting with her own demons.

I catch her as she’s removing her pants, her black sweater I love so much, and reveals a lacy black bra and matching underwear. She looks stunning, and a familiar ache settles in my chest.

Jealousy nearly knocks the air out of me. No. She’s getting ready to go live for all her subscribers. All of them. Not just me. I type out a message to tell her to stop, delete it, type again. No, I can’t. I promised myself I’d let her initiate today, and I can’t play the possessive boyfriend when I am anything but.

But I don’t want to share. Or do I?

I watch, transfixed, as Chloe settles in front of her camera. She’s adjusting the lighting, primping her hair. My fingers itch to reach through the screen and touch those silky strands. I’ve imagined running my hands through her hair countless times, but this . . . this is different. This is real, raw, unfiltered Chloe.

The chat on her livestream explodes with comments. I can’t bear to look at them, can’t stand to see other men lusting after her. But I force myself to watch, to be a silent guardian in the shadows of her digital world.

“I know it’s been a couple of days,” she begins. I can’t see her face as she’s been careful to angle the camera where it’s shadowed, but now that I know BlackAsChlo is Chloe, it’s so obvious. “Before we continue,” she says, her voice soft but clear, “I want to share something with you all. I’ve been talking to someone . . . someone special.”

She leans forward to read all the comments. Comments that are saying “no!” “choose me!”

“Don’t be jealous, everyone. He likes to share. We already did a little show for all to see. He’s a mystery right now,” Chloe continues, her voice a sultry purr. “But I think I might be able to convince him to join me on camera soon. Would you all like that?”

The chat explodes again, a cacophony of enthusiasm and jealousy. I can barely breathe. My mind races, trying to piece together what’s happening. Flashback of our night at Naughty and Nice crash into my mind like a tidal wave. Clearly it made as much of an impression with Chloe as it did with me.

Chloe giggles, the sound both innocent and knowing. “Oh, you naughty people. Always so eager. But patience is a virtue, you know.”

She leans back, giving her audience a tantalizing view. She runs a finger from her breast, down her stomach, down to the waistband of her panties. I can’t tear my eyes away, even as a part of me screams that this is wrong, that I should stop watching.

“Maybe I’ll give you a little preview,” Chloe says, her voice husky. “Just a taste of what’s to come.”

She hooks her thumb under the lace of her underwear, slowly pulling it down. I’m frozen, caught between desire and rage, unable to look away but hating the idea of anyone else watching.

Possessive. That’s how I’m feeling.

If I was being honest with myself, it’s been there all along, but now that I’ve had a taste . . . It’s suffocating.

I think you’ve given them enough, pretty girl, I find myself typing. I don’t want to share. Call me an asshole, but I don’t want anyone seeing her pussy but me. Or at least without me being there making it obvious to all who are watching that though we may be showing her pussy . . . it’s still mine.

Possessive jerk? I guess so.

Should I have resisted? Doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. The message is out there, floating in the digital ether, making its way to Chloe’s screen.

I watch as Chloe pauses. Her hand stills on her underwear, and I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. She leans forward, presumably reading my message, and for a moment, I’m terrified she’ll get angry and everything will come crashing down.

But then she laughs, a sound that I will never tire of hearing. “Well, well,” she purrs, addressing her audience. “Looks like my mystery man has decided to join us after all. And he’s feeling a bit . . . possessive.”

The chat explodes again, a mix of disappointment and taunts. I can barely focus on the words scrolling by; all I can see is Chloe, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

“What do you think, everyone?” Chloe asks, her voice teasing. “Should I listen to him? Or should I give you the show you’ve been waiting for?”

I hold my breath, watching as she reads the responses. My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to type something else, to beg her to stop, to claim her as mine. But I resist.

No. Fuck that shit. I quickly type a warning on the public feed for all to see, BlackAsChlo . . . naughty girls get punished.

“Hmm,” Chloe muses, tracing lazy circles on her thigh. “It seems we have a bit of a split decision. I might like what my WinterWatcher has in mind for my punishment. I’ve never claimed to be a good girl.”

The temptation to spank her ass has never been so strong. Hearing her plead for mercy as she promises to be the good girl I know she can be. Then she falls to her knees, wraps her lips around my cock and—NôvelDrama.Org content.

“But you know what? I think I’m going to listen to my mystery man tonight.”

Relief washes over me, quickly followed by a surge of domineering pride. She chose me. She listened to me.

“Don’t worry, though,” Chloe continues, her voice a seductive whisper. “I promise we’ll make it up to you next time. Maybe with a special guest appearance?”

The minute she logs off, I instantly get a private message. A punishment, huh?

Yes, I quickly type back. Clearly you deserve one.

Don’t like sharing?

I’m treading dangerous waters now, but I can’t stop myself.

No, I don’t like sharing, I type back. Not unless I’m there to make it clear who you belong to.

There’s a pause, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Then her reply pops up. Mmm, jealous possessive. I like it. So tell me, WinterWatcher, how would you claim me?

My fingers fly across the keyboard, unleashing all the pent-up fantasies I’ve harbored for months.

I’d start by wrapping my hand in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. I’d mark you there, where everyone can see. I’d punish you in front of everyone so all your subscribers can see what happens when you’re a bad girl and perform for them without me. I pause and add, You deserve discipline for what you did.

Oh really? And what do you have in mind, WinterWatcher?

I’m going to spank that ass of yours until it’s bright red, until your pussy is dripping, and until you are moaning my name.

I stare at the screen, my dick hardening to uncomfortable levels as I wait for Chloe’s response. The seconds stretch into an eternity.

Finally, her reply appears. Mmm, promises, promises. But can you deliver?

Oh, if only she knew. I’ve imagined this scenario a thousand times, planned it out in exquisite detail.

I don’t make promises I can’t keep, I type back. The question is, can you handle it?

I watch the nanny cam footage as Chloe reads my message. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, weighing the risks and rewards.

Is that your fantasy? she replies.

Tell me another, she says. The biggest one of all.

I pause, considering if I should reveal my truest fantasy of all. The one thing I’ve wanted since I first stood outside her window.

My biggest fantasy, I type slowly, is to not have to spend Christmas alone.

I hold my breath, watching the screen intently. Have I said too much? Have I gone from sexy dom to pathetic cinnamon roll?

Seconds tick by with no response. On the nanny cam, I see Chloe staring at her screen, her expression unreadable.

Finally, a message appears. That’s a fantasy of mine as well. I didn’t realize it until now.

For a moment, I forget about the cameras, the stalking, the lies. All I can think about is the possibility of spending Christmas with her, of waking up next to her on a cold winter morning, of sharing hot cocoa and stolen kisses by a fireplace.

Two people alone for Christmas, huh? I reply, feeling as if I’m walking on eggshells. I don’t want to be too forward too fast.

I want to invite myself over. I want to suggest we spend Christmas together. But I can’t. Not yet. It’s too soon, too risky. I have to play this carefully.

But I wasn’t lying when I told her that my biggest fantasy is not having to spend Christmas alone. Ever since my mother died . . . I can’t bring myself to finish that thought. The pain of losing her is still too raw, even after all these years. Instead, I focus on Chloe, on the possibility of a future where I’m not alone.

Maybe we don’t have to be alone, Chloe types back. What if . . . what if we spent it together? You gave me one of my fantasies at Naughty and Nice. It seems only fair that I give you one of yours.

How can I pull this off? How can I spend Christmas with Chloe and her not discover who I am? It’s one thing wearing a mask and a cloak in a dark club. I could speak in a low tone, covered by the sound of loud club music. It’s another spending intimate time together in the hushed comfort of her house. I can’t exactly wear a mask on Christmas Eve and practically growl out commands, now can I? How far can masked cave man act go?

Giving me one of my fantasies? I begin typing, thinking of every possibility to keep my charade alive. Whatever I want for Christmas?

I see her smile as she answers, Yes. My Christmas gift to you. That’s if you’ve been a good boy and you’re on Santa’s nice list.

I’m sure you have, Chloe replies. I can almost hear the teasing lilt to her words . So yes, you get your Christmas present however you want it. Just tell me.

I want my present wrapped in a bow on Christmas Eve, I type.

The man knows what he wants. Which of course is sexy as fuck.

Yes, I understand, Chloe replies. Ten p.m. on Christmas Eve. Blindfolded, naked, with a red ribbon. I’ll be waiting.

I stare at her words, a mix of disbelief and primal need coursing through me. This is really happening.

Good girl, I type back. And remember, no peeking. The blindfold stays on the entire time.

On the nanny cam, I see Chloe squirm in her chair, clearly aroused by the idea. Okay, she types. I trust you.

Those three words hit me like a punch to the gut. She trusts me. If only she knew the truth.

But I push the guilt aside. This is what I’ve wanted for so long. I’m not going to let anything ruin it now.

You won’t regret it, I type back. I promise to make it a Christmas Eve you’ll never forget.

I watch as Chloe reads my message, her lips curving into a smile. She types back, I haven’t done Christmas in a really long time.

I’ve never done anything like this, she continues to confess.

Inviting a masked man you nearly fucked at a club to your house is not your norm, you say? I type, smirking as I do.

I see and hear her laugh. I smile, watching her through the camera.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to reassure her, to tell her she has nothing to fear from me. But how can I do that without revealing too much?

I would never hurt you, I type finally. You can trust me.

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I watch her face on the camera, trying to decipher her thoughts. Finally, she responds.

I’m worried that she may start to talk herself out of this, so I type, Until Christmas Eve, I want you to think about what might happen. I want you to imagine my hands on your body, my lips on your skin. But you’re not allowed to touch yourself. Not until Christmas Eve.

I see her squirm in her chair again, clearly affected by my words.

That’s cruel, she types back, but I can almost hear the playful tone in her voice.

Consider it part of your punishment for earlier, I reply. And motivation for good behavior.

And if I’m not good? she asks.

She laughs out loud at that, the sound carrying through my speakers. It’s a magical sound, one that makes my heart soar.

I’ll be good, she promises. The best you’ve ever had.

If only she knew how good she already was, how perfect she is in my eyes. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet.

We’ll see, I type instead. Now, it’s getting late. You should get some sleep.

You’re right, she agrees. Goodnight, WinterWatcher. Sweet dreams.

Goodnight, BlackAsChlo, I reply. Give me your address, and I’ll see you soon.

I watch as she shuts down her computer and gets ready for bed. As she slips under the covers, I lean back in my chair, my mind racing with possibilities.

Christmas Eve can’t come soon enough.