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

Okay, I’m buzzed. Maybe drunk. Peppermint martinis with Sloane was fun and surprisingly liberating. I can’t believe I actually confessed my secret. I’ve never been so bold before, so open.

And now that I’m safe at home, sitting in front of my computer, I’m not ready for bed quite yet.

“Just to read the comments,” I whisper to myself, the peppermint still lingering on my breath.

I log into my account, the Dark Secrets logo flashing across the screen. My heart races as I see the number of viewers already waiting. They don’t know my real name, my day job, my fears. Here, I’m whoever I want to be.

I adjust my webcam, checking my reflection. My cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, my eyes glassy. I look like a hot mess and in no condition to go live, but that doesn’t mean I can’t—

And then I see the green light pop on next to my most recent commenter—WinterWatcher.

Maybe it’s the alcohol clouding my judgment, or maybe it’s the lingering high from my confession to Sloane, but I find myself reaching for the Direct Message button. I normally avoid DMs completely. I have never had a desire to look at strangers’ dick pics or hairy anus shots (yes, that’s a thing). But I want to see if the new message that popped up is him.

I hover over the message icon, my finger heavy as I click. The chat window opens, and there it is—a message from WinterWatcher.

No dick pics. No crude comments. Just . . . nice.

The words stare back at me from the screen, innocent enough but loaded with possibility. I bite my lip, debating whether to respond. This is new territory, dangerous even. But the peppermint martinis have lowered my inhibitions, and curiosity gets the better of me.

Not yet, I type back, my heart skipping.

The three dots appear, indicating he’s typing a response. I hold my breath, unsure of what to expect.

I pause, surprised by the casual, friendly tone. This isn’t the type of exchange I expected. I assumed I’d get the ick factor or feel too dirty. This almost feels . . . normal. Something about his easy manner makes me want to continue.

It was . . . enlightening, I reply, thinking back to my conversation with Sloane. Had drinks with a friend. Told her about . . . this. Dark Secrets.

I smile, remembering Sloane’s reaction. Better than expected. She called me a “camgirl” and wanted to know all about it.

His response makes me realize how lonely keeping this secret life has been. I’ve never had anyone to discuss it with, to share the excitement and fears.

Yeah, it is, I type, feeling a sudden warmth toward this stranger. What about you? Why are you up so late?

I feel a flutter in my stomach, a mix of alcohol and unexpected connection. This is treacherous territory, I remind myself. But I can’t seem to stop.

So, WinterWatcher, what’s the story behind your username? I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

There’s something both intriguing and slightly unsettling about his response.

Sounds like there’s quite a story there, I type, my fingers hesitating over the keys. Care to elaborate?

Obsession. Hard to shake once it takes hold.

There’s a long pause before another one of his responses comes through. Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out. Nothing sinister, I promise.

I stare at the screen, my heart racing. The alcohol in my system makes everything feel slightly surreal, like I’m watching this conversation unfold from outside my body.

You’re right, WinterWatcher replies. We all have our stories. Our fantasies. Our obsessions. What’s yours?

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How much should I reveal? The anonymity of the platform emboldens me, but a small voice of caution still whispers in the back of my mind.

Interesting, WinterWatcher responds quickly. Is that why you do this? The cam shows?

I consider his question, surprised by how perceptive it is. Partly, I admit. It’s liberating in a way. To be desired, admired even, but still maintain distance.

I can understand that, he replies. The power of being watched, but still being untouchable.

What about you? I ask, deflecting. What’s your fantasy?

There’s a long pause before his response comes through. To be close to someone. To know them completely. Every detail, every secret. Not just know what she presents for the world to see, but really know her deepest and darkest desires.

There’s no such thing as too close, he replies almost instantly. Not when you truly want to know someone.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. And how would you go about getting that close?

I pause, unsure how to respond. The rational part of my brain tells me to end this conversation, to log off and forget about WinterWatcher. But something keeps me there, fingers poised over the keyboard.

And what if the person doesn’t want to be understood that deeply? I ask.

Everyone wants to be understood, he replies. Even if they don’t know it yet.

Yup, I have to be drunk for me to have the courage to type, Is that your fantasy? To watch?

And what about me? I type, my heart racing. Am I part of that fantasy? Do you like watching me?

There’s a pause that feels like an eternity before his response appears.

I stare at the screen, my mouth dry. The single word “Yes” seems to pulse with an energy of its own. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or the late hour, but I feel a strange mix of fear and excitement.

I studied you, he types. We like the same videos. We have favorited a lot of the same pics.

Is that so? I like knowing this. My kinks are eclectic. Give examples.

Well, WinterWatcher types, there’s that video of the woman tied up in shibari rope, suspended from the ceiling. You favorited it and five others just like it.

My breath catches. He’s right. I had been mesmerized by that video, the intricate knots, the vulnerability and strength of the model.

Again, he’s correct. I’ve always been drawn to the tease and glamour of those old photos.This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

You’ve been doing your homework, I type.

I have, he responds quickly. I find you fascinating.

I pause, unsure how to proceed. Part of me wants to shut down the conversation, to log off and pretend this never happened. But another part, the part fueled by the battle I’ve had inside of me of danger vs. safe continues on.

Is that what you want to do? I type. Spank me?

Is that what you want? WinterWatcher replies. To be spanked?

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keys.

Maybe, I type finally.

I stare at his words, my heart racing. He’s right, of course. I do want more. But how could he know that?

What do you think I want? I type.

There’s a pause before his response comes through. You want a man who doesn’t ask. He just does. You want a man who takes control, who knows what you need before you even realize it yourself. I see a woman who craves intensity. Who wants to be pushed to her limits, to experience everything life has to offer. But I also see someone who’s afraid. Afraid of losing control, of being truly vulnerable.

His words hit me like a physical blow. I feel naked, stripped bare by his perceptions.

I get up from my chair and pace my room, trying to sober up some. This is unlike me. I never peel back the curtain. And yet, here I am.

Something about WinterWatcher’s words has me captivated.

I sit back down, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Are you the kind of man who can make all those fantasies happen?

Yes, comes his swift reply.

How? I type, my fingers shaking. How would you do it?

There’s a pause before his reply comes through. First, I’d make you wait. Build the anticipation. Make you think about all the possibilities until you’re practically begging for it. I’d want your pussy wet without me even touching you.

Oh Jesus. Here we go . . . Is this officially sexting? I don’t even know what to call this!

Then? I prompt, barely breathing.

Then, WinterWatcher types, I’d blindfold you. Take away your sight so every other sense is heightened. You’d feel the brush of my fingertips along your skin, never knowing where I’d touch next. The anticipation would drive you wild.

Go on, I type, my heart racing.

I squeeze my thighs together, feeling a familiar warmth building.

And then? I prompt, switching to voice command for . . . ease.

I let out a shaky breath, realizing I’ve been holding it.

Keep going, I dictate.

I stare at the screen, my body flushed and clammy at the same time. WinterWatcher’s words have painted such a vivid picture, I can almost feel his hands on my skin, his breath on my neck. I’m breathing heavily, aroused beyond belief.

I let out a soft moan, my hand unconsciously moving to my breast, pretending it’s his.

Promises, promises, I somehow am able to say even though my throat tightens.

Do something for me, he types.

I hesitate. What do you want me to do? I ask, my heart racing.

Take off your clothes, WinterWatcher replies. I want to imagine you sitting there, naked, as we talk.

I’m surprised he’s not asking me to turn on the camera.

No camera, he adds as if reading my mind. Just you and me . . . and our fantasies.

I pause, considering his request. The alcohol in my system makes me feel bold, reckless even. Without overthinking it, I stand up and start to undress, my fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons of my jeans.

As I slip off my jeans and pull my top over my head, the cool air of the room caresses my bare skin, making me shiver slightly. I unhook my bra and let it fall to the floor, then slide off my panties. I’m completely naked now, exposed and vulnerable in a way I’ve never been before during my Dark Secrets sessions. Even though the camera isn’t on, I get this feeling as if he’s somehow watching. The fantasy of him doing exactly that—watching—heightens my arousal to an even higher degree.

I sit back down in front of the computer, my heart feeling as if it’s two sizes too big. Done, I say, my body feels . . . hot.

Good girl, WinterWatcher replies. Now spread your legs. Wide.

I slowly spread my legs, feeling alive and beyond turned on.

They’re spread, I reply, licking my dry lips.

Perfect, he says. Now, I want you to touch yourself. Slowly.