He crouches on the floor, lowering his eye to the hole in the door designed to accommodate old-fashioned perversions as well as old-fashioned keys. What fleeting guilt he feels is eclipsed by his sense of entitlement, though not because the object of his gaze is his betrothed. Who she is isn’t as relevant as who he is, and first and foremost, he is a voyeur. It’s a compulsion he’s had for as long as he can remember, and as much a part of his sexual identity as his mostly-hetero orientation. Watching is as crucial to his gratification as coming; furthermore, he doesn’t believe he is capable of the latter without first partaking of the former. He needs to come, so he has no choice but to watch. He strokes his cock through his pants and waits for Bella to move back into his view.