Samhain Publishing

Through the eyes of desire…

These days, Lydia is feeling increasingly restless, and tired of being invisible. No one at work notices the nose-to-the-grindstone colleague dressed in business drab. Her neighbors don’t even know her name.

No one knows she burns off her frustration by dancing to her favorite music, alone in her apartment. No one knows her closet is a wardrobe divided: monochrome and flats by day, silk and stilettos by night. No one knows her secret ritual has slowly evolved into private stripping…then dancing naked on her tiny balcony, daring someone—anyone—to notice.

Then, at the apartment across the way, the curtains move.

Wes can’t believe what he’s been missing by working the night shift. He is drawn to the amazing woman whose every sensual move makes his body ache. And when she catches him watching, the evening explodes into an erotic fantasy. Afterward, though, she confesses she’s not all she seems. No way is this fiery siren as boring and unlovable as she claims.

And no way is he going to let her go without convincing her she is brave, beautiful…and the face he wants to see every morning.

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Copyright © 2010 Natasha Moore
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication


I feel more daring than usual tonight. Today’s snub pushed me over the edge. I reach for the red demi-bra I’d ordered online but hadn’t even tried on yet. I slip my arms through the slender straps and snug it up under my breasts. After I hook it behind my back, I step in front of the full-length mirror.

The push-up bra fits perfectly, tight enough around my ribs to notice, but not enough to restrict my movements. I wouldn’t want to do that. My heart beats a little faster as I see the way the cups stop just short of my nipples. They’ve beaded quite nicely as they peek over the top, obviously looking forward to brushing intimately against whatever garment I choose for tonight’s performance.

I don’t know why I bothered with the panties. They’re soaked already.

Some nights I linger here in my safe closet, taking my time while deciding which dress to wear. I love to run my hands over the various textures, the different colors, debating necklines and hemlines. But tonight I’m anxious to get started. Ready to crank up the music and feel the blood pulsing through my veins again.

The silk wrap dress will be perfect. The fabric slides sensuously against my skin as I slip my hands through the armholes and draw it up my back and over my shoulders. The long sleeves are tight, an erotic binding along my arms. When I wrap the bodice over my breasts, my nipples send tingles of delight shooting straight between my legs. I tie the sash tightly at my waist. Quivers of anticipation dance in my stomach.

Now for the shoes.

I love shoes. My mood, my attitude can change completely depending upon the shoes I put on my feet. I stand in front of the rows of pumps and sandals and boots in colors to match every outfit hanging beside them. It’s a toss-up between the red sandals with the half-dozen skinny straps that hug my foot like a lover’s hand or the red pumps with the sparkly bling on the heels and toes. I hold them up to the light and the bling wins. I step into them, and my muscles stretch and tremble in anticipation.

I practiced for hours before I could actually dance in four-inch heels. I could barely toddle around my living room for the first few weeks. But now I don’t even have to think about it and the way they make my legs look, long and lean, is so worth it.

I turn to catch my reflection in the mirror. My dark, heavy hair is still clipped up, but stray ringlets have escaped around my face. I trade out my tiny pearl earrings for some shiny silver ones that dangle almost to my shoulders. I add some dramatic make-up, deep ruby lips and creamy blush, thick mascara and bold eyeliner. My nipples poke at the silk, my skin shimmers beneath the light. Some days I think I must have a split personality. No one at The Information Station would recognize me now. Sometimes I don’t recognize myself.

Or is it the mousy phone rep with the boring wardrobe that I don’t recognize? When did I become her? How did it happen? I run my hands over my body and push the questions away. There’s no time for deep thoughts right now. I’m restless and ready for action.

Foreplay can only last so long before the body gets anxious for the real thing. I turn away from the mirror and walk down the hall and through my tiny living area to the other end of the long space which was intended to hold a table and chairs.

To my left runs a breakfast bar that faces the corridor kitchen. One bar stool is all I need for a dining area. Against the wall in front of me stands my state-of-the-art sound system and the row of CD cabinets. The stretch of hardwood floor calls to me to begin.

This is my dancing space.

The front wall is taken up by wide sliding glass doors that open up onto the world’s tiniest balcony. I draw open the curtains, pull back the sheers and peek out. It’s getting dark already. Three floors of apartments in the U-shaped complex face a dreary courtyard, barely more than a couple trees and a concrete path that’s broken and overgrown. Not much to look at, but is that any reason to keep the curtains drawn day and night?

I have never seen any of my neighbors open their curtains. Ever. Is it because they don’t want to look out or because they don’t want anyone looking in? If it weren’t for the occasional glimpse of a man or a woman walking through the courtyard or climbing the stairs, I’d think I was living in an empty building. Alone in my apartment, I sometimes feel as if I’m haunted by the ghosts of the other tenants. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve imagined them.

I think it’s slowly driving me crazy.

The short skirt tickles my thighs as I close the sheers and draw the curtains again. First things first. My body is buzzing with the restless need to move. My heels rap sharply on the wooden floor. I choose one of my favorite CDs and slide it into the player. I take a deep breath and let out a sigh as the sensuous notes glide over me. Stress drains completely from my body and excitement jumps in to take its place.

Months ago, I’d started dancing as a way to burn off all the frustrations from my job, my co-workers, from all the restlessness that had been building inside me during the day. Some nights I would stomp and whirl wildly to flamenco music. Some nights I would sway and bend gracefully to a classical orchestra. If my neighbors have ever been bothered by the music, or my dancing, they’ve never complained.

But then, maybe I live unheard as well as unseen.

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