A/N: Thanks QuasiOuster, big fan of your stories :).
IV. Sleepless Spectator
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches, his eyes follow the trail of naked skin inch by inch as her robe descends down her shoulders, her back and her waist. Her magnificent figure in white lace underwear; the faint smell of channel on her skin...
His hand touches her ever so gently, fingers travelling down her back towards the clasp of her bra, snapping it open.
She turns to look at him…
And the gun in her hand is the last thing he sees.
Bang!
Daryl jumps awake after two hours of sleep. He's exhausted, which is unusual, given that his biological clock is used to worse sleeping schedules. He takes a look through his binoculars at the window of the apartment across the street. The dim lights and the moon make it possible to behold the female figure sprawled across the bed. Her lace night gown does nothing to hide the perfect curves of her body, and the contrast of her dark skin against the white sheets adds an almost artistic appeal to the sensuality of the scene.
Pictures of her nakedness swim across his memory; still fresh, as it was just four hours ago that he saw her come out of the bathroom wrapped in a bathrobe she quickly discarded to the floor.
She's getting bolder.
He frowns at his own lack of decency. This woman isn't even conscious he's watching her. He's clearly the perverted ogler here. And it's not like he's not tried to respect her privacy by any means possible, it's just that he's failed shamelessly at it. He's weak, he knows: a weak excuse of a gentleman.
It is too much of a coincidence, however, that she never closes the curtains; that her moves seem too slow and calculated to be deliberate; that her body contours in ways that give him the best perspective of her attributes. Is this woman prone to be this lewd? Is she a natural born seductress?
Daryl rubs his eyes with his free hand, trying to dissipate the images before they lead to inappropriate fantasies. The eroticism of this mission is making it more difficult than it needs to be. It's been three days since it begun and from the first night his strength has started to falter. He blames it all on the damn lack of sleep. It's too difficult for him to rest properly after this woman's teasing leaves him wired every night. And the times he manages to get a hold on himself and relax, he cannot prevent his dreams from rewinding back to those moments and add more intense pictures of his own hands navigating that silky skin of hers.
What would Rick say if he saw him like this? All hot and bothered by a woman who used to be his? A woman whose relationship to Daryl is and will always be non-existent?
He's broken tons of rules during his life; crossed the line several times. But when it comes to ladies he's always been guarded. So guarded, in fact, he never even knew what it was like to have a lover until he met Carol.
And his Cherokee rose, the only woman ever capable of breaking through his walls, only ended up proving his fears true.
Women deserve better, much better than him.
Ever since her, he's had that harsh lesson painfully branded on his skin. Along with another he's clearly not remembering right now.
As little as possible.
He knows the danger, and he's afraid that this woman, this temptress he doesn't know, might make him cross that line. There is a vicious intimacy to all this that he can't quite explain.
Every night this nameless flower blossoms for him, showing herself in all her exotic beauty; and he bears witness to it, his want for her spreading like wildfire.
His eyes fly back to the window as a sudden move catches his attention. The woman's violent jolt puts him on his guard, but there's no sign of forceful entry or a surprise attack in any of the other windows of her apartment. Daryl sighs with relief as he watches the woman sit up on the bed, bringing her legs to her chest and her hands to her head. He can make out her soft trembling.
Night terrors.
And she looks quite distraught by them. It is not the first time he sees her like this. Makes him wonder…
She walks slowly towards the window and opens it, leaning against its frame; the night must be quite cold, but she seems not to notice. He can almost guess the tears falling from her eyes. He wishes he could reach over and brush them away. He hates to see women cry.
Then it happens. She turns her head towards his window and stares. It startles him. Her eyes seem to watch him, peeking through the blinds. She's not grazing over, not lost in her thoughts. She's staring. And a thought falls on him like a bucket of cold water.
She knows he's watching her.
Temptress - IAMEVE