Читать книгу Indecent...Nights: Indecent...Exposure / Indecent...Proposal / Indecent...Desires - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 15

Chapter Six

The weird awkwardness is right there between us, only this time it’s tempered with an almost instant arousal. I want you, I think as I look at him. You’re weird and strange and you dress like a pervert and god, I want you. But I don’t say it out loud. ‘So have you?’

‘Not yet,’ he says, as he shrugs out of his jacket. ‘The opportunity has never presented itself.’

‘It hasn’t?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’ve wanked myself off in here a few times though.’

Oh, god. I walk quickly towards the chair nearest to me and collapse into it, setting my bag down on the floor by my feet. Mutually assured destruction, I remind myself, as I glance around his office. It looks exactly the same as it always has, and yet something is different. ‘I want to have sex with you in your office,’ I say, rushing the words out. ‘I want to have lots of sex with you. I want to do all the things that everyone else is doing.’

He gets out of his seat and walks around to my side of the desk. ‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ he says. ‘What sort of sex are you talking about?’

‘The indecent kind.’ I’m so hot now even my hair is sweating. ‘Please, just…I want to have sex with you.’ It takes everything I have to get those words out, and my heart races. I bite into my lip. What if he asks for those other words, like he did yesterday? I don’t know if I can say them.

But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches out and grabs my right breast. He doesn’t stroke, or fondle. He grabs, his big hand covering that curve of flesh. My nipple pushes itself against his palm, like a hard little nut, straining to get into his fingers. He moves his hand away, but he does it slowly, his fingers pressing together to form a tight pinch that holds my nipple in that place between pleasure and pain for a second that’s not nearly long enough.

‘Show me your tits,’ he says then, his voice rough. ‘I didn’t see them yesterday. I want to see them.’

I’m wearing a white cotton vest today, with a pale blue sweater over the top. It’s hardly easy access. And then there’s my bra. Not to mention my nerves, which are horrific. ‘I’m not Amber,’ I say, as I set shaking hands to the hem of my sweater.

‘Like I told you yesterday,’ he says, ‘Amber doesn’t make me hard.’ And then his hands are under my clothes. He touches my stomach, touches my breast through my bra and then works his hand underneath it until his hand is covering my soft, sensitive flesh.

‘Tell me what you want,’ he says, searching my face as he plays with my breast. He isn’t gentle, he’s rough, and I like it. I like it so much.

‘I can’t,’ I say, closing my eyes as he locks his thumb and forefinger around my nipple and tortures it. ‘Please, Tom. Don’t make me say it.’ I open my eyes and glance down at my bag.

‘In here?’ he says, unfastening the zip with his free hand. He touches the camera case, and I shake my head. His fingers settle on my iPad. Then he takes it out and turns it on.

‘Password?’

‘No.’

He clicks into the folder, just as I did yesterday. ‘Purple,’ I say, digging my teeth into my lip. ‘Pick the purple.’

But he doesn’t pick the purple. He picks the green. A shot fills the screen, and he looks at it for a moment, then he pulls my clothes out of the way and fills his mouth with my breast.

I’m swamped by the sensation, as his mouth seems to pour heat into me. My breast swells against his mouth, and I arch my back and dig my fingers into his hair to hold him there. He bites, licks, sucks at me and I feel it everywhere. The faint scratch of his beard is rough against my skin when he moves his head so that he can take another look at the photo on the screen.

I can’t blame him for that. This picture is beautiful, probably one of the best I have ever taken. The colour is soft, shades of pink and peach, contrasting sharply with the black pinstriped suit and dark cropped hair of the woman in the forefront. She is on her knees, her face hidden between the creamy thighs of her naked girlfriend. Her back is arched, her eyes closed, their fingers entwined as she rides out her orgasm.

But there is more to this picture than the sex. There is love, and that makes it all the more erotic, somehow.

Tom moves his hands to my waist and lifts me out of the chair. He actually lifts me. I’ve never been manhandled like this before, and god, I like it. My sweater is pushed up, exposing both my breasts now, and he somehow manages to get my skirt up around my waist when he sets me down on the desk.

‘Touch yourself,’ he says. ‘Show me how you touch yourself.’

The request seems so lewd, so wicked. I grip the edge of the desk and shake my head, but I’m desperate to do as he asked. Then he opens his mouth over my breast again and works the already sensitive flesh. I can’t hold in the sound of pleasure, and he bites me when I let it out, forcing me to make it again, louder this time.

He puts a hand between my knees, pushes them apart, and I let him. He’s going to touch me, I think. He was so good at it yesterday. Anticipation surges through me. I need this. I need it to be here, and I need it to be now. I hook my fingers into my knickers and drag them down to my knees, then kick them off, sending my shoes flying. They hit the door with a rapid thump, and then fall to the floor.

The desktop is cold under my feet when I prop them on it. I’m fully exposed to him now. If he looks – and he does – he’ll see everything.

‘Ellie,’ he says roughly. ‘Fuck, Ellie. Do you know what you do to me?’

I don’t say anything. I sit there on top of his desk, panting, waiting for him to give me relief from the ache centred right there between my legs. ‘Touch me,’ I beg him. ‘Please.’

‘Where?’ he asks. His voice is still harsh but those blue eyes are shining.

The bastard. He is going to make me say it. And he has me so hot that I don’t have any choice. ‘My pussy,’ I say. ‘Touch my pussy.’

He rests one hand on top of my thigh, moves his other hand between my legs, then slowly slides two fingers deep inside me. I clench tight around him, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough.

Slowly, he begins to move those fingers back and forth inside me, and I think about his cock and how that would feel. Bigger, yes, harder, but I can’t imagine anything feeling better than this. His mouth on my breast was rough, desperate, but his fingers inside me are gentle, tender almost.

I don’t understand. I glance at him, but he’s not looking at my face any more, he’s looking down at his hand, so I look down at it too. I grip the edge of the desk more tightly, curl my body forwards to get a better view, and he groans as I tighten around him.

He’s wearing a white shirt, the kind with the proper cuffs, held together with plain silver cufflinks, and he’s pulled his sleeve up a little, exposing his wrist. His watch is masculine and chunky, and his fingers, when he pulls them out of me, are glossy. ‘You’re so wet,’ he says, his voice full of longing.

I don’t think I’ve ever sat in this office with him and not been wet, and I tell him that now. He closes his eyes for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. But then he opens them and starts to work me harder, twisting his fingers, curving them round to touch somewhere inside me that almost makes me scream. I bite down on my lip to hold it in.

Everything is so hot and swollen and aching, but I can’t come like this. I need more. ‘Touch my clit,’ I beg him. I’m beyond caring about what I’m saying now. The words don’t feel embarrassing, they feel right. ‘Please, Tom. Touch my clit.’

He smiles at me then. ‘Touch it yourself. Show me how you make yourself come.’

My first few strokes are tentative, uncertain, not because I don’t know how to do this, but because I’m almost afraid to let him see. ‘I’m scared,’ I admit, as he continues to torment me with the pressure of those thick fingers. He experimentally adds a third, and I almost implode, such is the pleasure.

‘Don’t be,’ he says, and there it is again, that tenderness. ‘It’s just you and me, Ellie. No one else has to know.’

He coaxes me into it so easily. I touch myself again, more pressure this time, more friction, closing my eyes at the first glimpse of my climax. ‘I can’t do this,’ I tell him desperately, as I touch myself and he works me. ‘I can’t.’

Warm breath caresses my breast. His tongue finds my nipple, the hard, sensitive tip.

And he shows me that I can.

I’m still not calm when we leave the office together, turn onto the street and start to walk into town, neither of us mentioning what we’ve just done. We talk about the weather and the ginger cat that runs across the pavement, and what happened in the episode of Game of Thrones that was on telly last night. It turns out he’s quite an expert on Game of Thrones. He’s read all the books.

‘That’s the problem with porn.’ He says it like it’s a perfectly normal thing. ‘No decent plot. What people want is Game of Thrones with real fucking.’

I imagine Game of Thrones with real fucking. ‘Yeah,’ I say faintly. ‘That would work.’

Tom stops outside the fancy delicatessen on Market Street, the one that does the most amazing sandwiches, but doesn’t go in. I stop, too. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘I really like that I can say things like this to you, and you’re not appalled. You’re not shocked, or disgusted. I feel like I could tell you anything and you would understand.’

Tell me, I think. Tell me all your filthy little secrets. I want to know what’s going on inside his head, how someone who always seemed so in control of himself could be such a mass of contradictions.

I push open the door to the delicatessen and go inside. The smell of coffee and hot, fresh bread hits me instantly, pummelling my already overworked senses. Today has been so weird that I barely know which way is up, and it’s getting weirder by the minute. Because sitting at the table opposite ours is the couple I didn’t photograph yesterday. I catch her eye completely by accident, and look away as fast as I can, but that lands my gaze on the blackboard above the counter, the one that lists all the specials, and I don’t want to look there.OK, so Tom already deals with my horrendously messy book keeping, but I can put that down to artistic tendencies. I don’t want him to know that the menu scares me just as much.

That just leaves me with Tom. Otherwise I’m gawking at the wall, and if I do that, there’s always the possibility of gaze slippage. I do what I have to do. I look straight at him.

‘Did you see anything you wanted on the board?’ he asks, and the words nail me to my chair.

‘I…er…it’s hard to know.’

‘Would it be wrong if I ordered for you? I’ve always wanted to order for a woman.’

I almost do a double take, but I say it’s fine. Of course I say it’s fine, although my inner feminist has a total tantrum. I take a packet of sugar from the little china pot in the middle of the table and fiddle with it as he joins the queue at the counter. I hold my breath, wondering what on earth he’s going to choose. He doesn’t have the faintest clue what I like. It could be something really awful, like beetroot or, god forbid, egg.

He comes back with a meatball sub.

‘I could kiss you,’ I say, as he pushes the plate towards me.

His head jerks up, and his gaze locks on mine. The only thing I can tell from his expression is that I’ve said something very, very wrong. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ he says.

My heart almost stops beating. My mouth tastes suddenly horrid. Of course it’s not a good idea. Kissing is too intimate, too close. It has nothing to do with what we’re doing. But now I’ve opened the idea up in my head, I can’t get away from it. I stare at his mouth, and I think how it felt on my breast, and I start to melt on my chair.

‘Thing is,’ he whispers, ‘I’ve got an erection.’

‘Oh.’

He blushes. Oh god, he’s blushing. ‘If I kiss you I’ll really need to fuck you, and I’ve got to be back at work in twenty minutes.’

The waitress comes over with our coffees. She sets them down then gives Tom a curious look that lingers a touch too long. Something occurs to me then, something that I’d not bothered to think about until today. I mean, he isn’t stereotypically good looking. He’s quite tall, but what with the constant big-brain-heavy-head stooping thing, he makes himself look shorter. And then there are the awful clothes. Everything is dorky and nondescript and beige, like he went into Marks and Spencer’s and bought exactly what was on the mannequin. And his hair. Combed back and tidy. No one wears their hair like that. No one.

But the bad posture can’t hide those hands. The clothes can’t hide the thick neck. The hair can’t hide the fact that everything about him screams I’m a dirty fuck. And clearly, I am not the only female on the planet to have noticed. I’m trying to get my head around this realisation, trying not to melt so much that I leave a wet patch on my chair, when I sense movement next to our table.

‘Hello,’ Tom says.

‘Hello,’ says the voice, familiar and strained and female. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well. Are you all set for our appointment on Thursday?’

‘Paul assures me he’s kept all the invoices this time.’

‘Excellent. There’s nothing more frustrating than a lost invoice.’

These two know each other? That explains the friendly greeting at the studio yesterday. Tom’s hand finds mine under the table, pulls it towards him and places it firmly between his legs. I choke down my mouthful of sandwich.

‘Hello,’ she says to me.

‘Hi,’ I manage, still not looking directly at her. This woman has seen a photo of Tom’s cock.OK, so he’s seen photos he shouldn’t have too, but in this particular scenario, she’s ahead, points-wise. Or maybe I am. He is hot and hard against my palm. ‘How is everything?’ I ask, my enthusiasm completely over the top.

‘Fine,’ she says, far too brightly. Her eyes are huge, rimmed with lashings of black eyeliner. She’s wearing a smart black suit, the same kind that Amber wears to work at the estate agent’s. In fact, now I’m looking more closely, she’s wearing the same badge on her lapel.

‘Look, I hope this isn’t out of order,’ she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, ‘but I was wondering if I could have a word with you. In private.’

‘Absolutely!’ What did I say that for? Why didn’t I make some excuse? Whatever it is that she wants to say, it can’t be good. I try to remove my hand from Tom’s crotch without making it obvious that that’s where it is, get up from the table and follow her outside.

She pounces on me instantly. ‘I want to know who that woman was in the photo we saw yesterday.’

Wow. Shit. Wow. ‘I…er…’

‘I wouldn’t ask,’ she continues, her voice dry and squeaky, ‘but I’m sure Paul knows the woman. He won’t tell me who she is. That has to mean that he’s fucked her at some point. Probably fucked her quite a lot, actually, knowing him.’

I start some waffle about client confidentiality, though it seems a bit late for that now, and I am clearly going to be awarded hypocrite of the century. She folds her arms, tosses her perfectly straight hair over her shoulders. Then she gives me a wobbly smile. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I should have thought about that before I asked. I let my emotions get the better of me.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘Are you really sure he knows her, anyway?

I can see Tom through the glass, watching us. He’s sitting inside with a hard on under the table. I know what it feels like to be fingered by him. God, I want him to finger me now. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying, to feel some sympathy for her, but all I can think about is him being all controlled and polite and dorky, only now I know that isn’t him. It isn’t him at all. Tom Hunt, quiet accountant by day, porn star by night.

I force myself to focus. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I say. ‘I should never have shown you that picture in the first place. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘No.’ She lifts her head. ‘I’m glad you did. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I want to make that clear. I just…’ She blinks, rapidly, and then says ‘I don’t mind Paul sleeping with other women. Provided he doesn’t do it without me.’

Certain things start to fall into place. I don’t know why it took me this long to figure it out. I’ve been doing what I do for too long to still think that everyone wants or needs a conventional sex life. But I don’t know where the line of right and wrong is in this situation. ‘And you’re sure that Paul knows the woman in the photo?’

She nods. ‘Beyond a shadow of a doubt. She was…’ She smiles then. ‘Pretty unforgettable.’

Something else slots into place in my mind. Paul is Amber’s boyfriend. Victoria is the woman he proposed to, pissing Amber off so much that she dragged Tom Hunt into my studio, dropped his pants and sucked him off. And I took pictures of it. Pictures she intends to use to get back at Paul, only Paul has already seen one of them, as has Victoria. Who is standing in front of me, begging me to tell her who the woman is.

There are not enough degrees of separation in this scenario for me. ‘OK,’ I say to her. ‘Look, give me a chance to talk to her. I’ll pass on what you said. And I’ll give her your number. But I can’t promise anything.’

Then I turn on my heel. I don’t want to say that I run back inside, but that’s the dictionary definition of what I do. I feel like the walls are closing in, like the part of my life I have kept quietly secret for so long has suddenly become as exposed as the people I’ve photographed.

And then I see Amber.

Sat at my table.

With Tom.

And Paul.

I blink a million times, as if that will somehow clear the picture, but it doesn’t. My heart beats so hard I feel sick, the whole place swamped with noise but at the same time shockingly, terrifyingly silent.

Amber waves and calls me over. She’s placed herself between Tom and Paul. Both of them are gawking at her cleavage. To be fair, I’m gawking at it too. It’s difficult not to, what with it resting on the table like that, right next to a half-drunk cup of coffee.

‘Fuck me. Amber is the woman in the photo?’

I’d forgotten Victoria was right behind me. I open and close my mouth a couple of times as I try to figure out whether or not I should lie. I mean, clearly I should lie. Amber is my friend, my best friend, and the last thing I want is for Victoria to go all bat shit crazy on her arse.

But then Amber looks up. I know the instant she puts her gaze on Victoria. A fire seems to flick on in her eyes as Paul sits bolt upright and goes completely stiff. Tom, well. He’s still slouching in his chair, exactly the way he was when I left him. I see the movement of Paul’s throat as he swallows, and then I see something else. Amber’s right hand is out of sight.

And Paul keeps on swallowing and blinking, and suddenly it hits me.

She’s fondling him under the table. And he’s letting her do it. And his fiancée is breathing down my neck, and Tom is right there, on the other side of Amber, and I’m involved in a five-way love triangle without even realising it. How did I end up here? I’m just a photographer. I haven’t even had an exciting two-way love triangle yet, so a five-way one is completely out of my area. This is all going to end badly. Horribly, messily badly, right here in the delicatessen. And I don’t know how on earth to get out of it.

Tom gets up from the table and walks towards me as Victoria whips around the outside, marches to the table, and takes his seat next to Paul. OMG. Any minute now, the world is going to end, and it’s all going to be my fault, and I’ll never have known what it was like to be banged into the middle of next week by Tom Hunt.

And now I’ve made that thought real inside my head, I can’t escape from it. It’s still there, shouting at me, when Tom stands in front of me, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, looking at me in that awkward way of his.

It completely undoes me.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘This day just keeps getting stranger.’

‘You think?’

He nods. ‘It could only get stranger if aliens landed.’ He glances down at the floor. ‘Well, I guess I’d better be getting back to work.’

No. No! We were talking, and he was letting me touch him, and I haven’t touched him nearly enough. ‘Already?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Could we…’ I stutter over the next word. No matter how hard I try, it won’t come. ‘When will we be able to…that is, I’d like to…’

‘Fuck?’ He supplies helpfully. The woman at the nearest table glares up at us, but Tom is seemingly oblivious.

It’s no good. I can’t say that word. ‘I’d like to see you again. If that’s OKwith you.’

‘Of course.’ He smiles at me, a big, happy smile. Then he reaches out and takes my hand. The gesture is sweet, charming, boyish, and his hand is warm. I shiver at the thought of that hand sliding over my flesh. ‘It is more than OKwith me. Tomorrow?’

Yes. Oh, yes. Please. Yes. But before I can get the word out, a shout comes from behind us. Amber. I dodge around Tom in time to see her storm out, arms folded, high heels loud on the tiled floor. Victoria and Paul are still at the table, and from the corner of my eye I see Victoria lean in, see their mouths touch. Oh, no. This was the last thing Amber wanted. The very last thing. Victoria, you lying bitch, I think to myself. You didn’t want Amber to be part of it. You wanted to know who she was so you could hurt her.

My heart sinks, but Tom is still holding my hand, holding on tight. He is still warm and next to me. He is still here, with me. And I know, now, that I have to be with him. Watching a life fall apart in front of you will have that effect, I’m discovering. I move closer to him, so close I can feel his breath warm my cheek. Everything is so screwed up.

‘I have to go after her,’ I tell him, trying to tug my hand free.

‘I know,’ he says, smoothing a stray strand of hair back behind my ear. The gesture is just a little thing, nothing at all really, and yet my entire body reacts to it. He’s so crude, and then so tender. I don’t know what to make of it at all. ‘But promise me you’ll meet me tomorrow. We need to fuck, Ellie.’

I find that word less shocking, now. But its power to excite me is increasing every time he says it. ‘Where?’

‘Where would you like?’

‘My studio?’ It’s the first place I think of.

His mouth widens into a lopsided smile. ‘Perfect.’

Then he lets me go. But by the time I make it outside, Amber has gone.