Читать книгу Indecent...Proposal - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 12

Chapter Four

I show Lucas around a few more flats. The last one is on the top floor of what was once an imposing Victorian family home. The bedroom has a wide bay window that overlooks the street. Lucas walks around it, as I sit on the windowsill and try to ignore my damp underwear. ‘I’ll take it,’ he says, a couple of minutes later.

Job done. Five minutes after that, he’s got a slack grin on his face and I’ve got a mouthful of spunk, so I guess you could say that job is done too. I refuse to let myself think about what Scott Smithson would say if I offered to give him a blowjob, so my brain fixates on Paul and Victoria instead. They’re on their honeymoon in the Seychelles now, doing what honeymooners do.

Paul had been my lover first. The relationship had been exciting, secretive. Estate Agents have keys for plenty of empty houses. For months, our entire relationship was conducted behind other people’s front doors, and I loved it. It made me feel special, wanted, wicked. Then Victoria joined the agency. And Paul started sleeping with her too, only I didn’t know about it. Then he fell in love with her. The sex he’d been having with me was nothing more than that. Sex. But it turned out that Victoria had a thing for blondes with big tits. And it turned out that I got a kick out of Paul watching me tangle with her.

So for six wicked months, the three of us played together. But it’s over now, it has to be, and what I need is a distraction, a new way to play. Lucas is definitely game, I know that, but as I look at him, I can’t shake the feeling that I need something else. Something not quite so…easy.

Scott Smithson isn’t easy. He doesn’t even like me. And I know it’s nothing more than my ego talking, but god, the thought that he might be attracted to me excites me beyond belief. And that’s what has me locking up the office twenty minutes early and making my way over to the gym. I swipe my card through the reader, push my way into the changing room and swap my office gear for Lycra and Nikes. Usually I do a class, something high intensity and women only. I don’t mind men watching me bounce and sweat, but I’d rather they were handpicked and weren’t doing it publicly. That’s the problem with being blonde and top-heavy. Men think it gives them the right to stare, even the bald, fat ones who are old enough to be my dad.

I shove my stuff into a locker, take the key and take a moment to check my hair in the mirror. It gets a pass. Then iPod in hand, I make my way out to the main room of the gym, the one that houses all the running and rowing machines. It’s five-thirty, and the place is already busy.

I feel the weight of several male stares, but I shake them off and focus on my target. Scott Smithson is already on a treadmill. The one next to his is empty and I dart towards it, but I’m not quick enough. A leggy brunette thrusts her water bottle in the holder, jumps her feet onto the sides. She thumbs the buttons and is quickly into a run that makes me wince.

She catches my gaze in the mirror, slides a sideways glance at Scott, then catches my eye again and gives an almost imperceptible smirk. Bitch. The bloke on the other side of Scott is sweating, liquid dripping from the end of his nose, his vest sticking to his hairy back. Eww. But as I always tell myself, go big or go home. So I saunter up to the sweaty bloke, fix on a smile and tuck my hair behind my ears. The dashboard on his treadmill says he’s been hogging it for the past forty-five minutes, and the sign on the wall clearly says users are allowed a maximum of thirty.

‘You must be so fit!’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine anyone running for forty-five minutes. I can barely manage ten.’

I can see him considering whether to ignore me or not. Then his gaze falls on my cleavage. ‘You have to learn to pace yourself,’ he says between gritted teeth.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Could you show me how to do that? How to pick the right pace?’

He hesitates, then slows the machine to a crawl. His hands drop to his hips as sweat drips all over the machine. Then he stops, steps down, gestures for me to get on. I hop up, wishing I’d had the foresight to grab a couple of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall.

‘We’ll start you off slowly,’ he says. He reaches across, but I wave him away.

‘I’ve got this,’ I say. I thumb the on switch, steadily increase the pace until I’m running at a comfortable jog. Just because I don’t use the stuff in here often doesn’t mean that I can’t use it. I might be blonde, but I’m not stupid.

The man stills, then realises he’s been had and walks off, muttering something rude under his breath. I flick him the bird in the mirror, but he’s too busy being pissed off to notice. And then I turn my attention to Scott.

His gaze is focused straight ahead as he runs at a steady pace, arms pumping. White wires trail from his ears to the dark band that circles one of his impressively cut biceps. I can see the woman on the other treadmill desperately trying to catch his attention. A spark of jealousy flares up inside me.

I’ll show her how to make him look. I thumb the speed button on my treadmill until my feet are pounding the machine. I can feel all the muscles in my body starting to burn, and my sports bra starting to lose its fight against the weight of my breasts.

That gets his attention. A surreptitious slide of his gaze across the mirror, quickly whipped away when he realises I’ve noticed. I keep running. My heart is pumping a strong, steady rhythm, and I feel fit and alive. But oh god, the bounce. With each step, my breasts fight the tight confines of my bra. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going.

I’m starting to wonder why I came here, why I’m doing this to myself. It’s not as if I need Scott Smithson. If I want to play, I’ve got Lucas for that. He’s more than capable and more than willing, and he won’t list all my flaws when we’re done.

And if I wanted a workout, there is a great class at seven. Usually I’m on my way into it just as Scott is on his way out. He gets to see me with my make-up still in place, my gym clothes fresh. I get to see him sweaty and exhausted as he heads off to shower. It has always made me feel superior, and I realise that I needed that to help me deal with him.

I’m not feeling superior now. I’m still running, keeping my pace, but my mouth is open and I’m breathing loud and hard. My face is red and my armpits are soggy, and there’s no escaping the pain in my breasts. It takes me a heartbeat to decide that I’ve had enough. I drop the speed to a walk, trying to at least make my exit look dignified and intentional, and not like defeat.

I fight the urge to hook an arm under my breasts and hold them steady, then I think oh, fuck it and do it anyway. It’s not like I have much dignity left now. It’s then that I realise Scott is staring at me. He’s still running, still pounding out the beat to whatever music is blasting through his headphones, and he’s staring at me with the same raw hunger that I saw back in the hotel, when he caught me with Lucas.

I stumble, nearly losing my footing on the treadmill. The brunette sniggers, and that finishes me off. I’m sweaty and sore, and I don’t know why I came here. It’s too confusing, too much for me right now. I slam the red button that stops the machine, climb off it with shaking legs, then head to the changing rooms as fast as dignity will allow. I empty out my locker without bothering to shower – I can do that when I get home – then push my way to the exit with my kit bag slung over my shoulder and my heels in my hand.

Outside it’s still light, and I’m heading for the car park when I remember that I didn’t bring my car today, I walked. I stop where I am and rub my hand over my face, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I came here because I wanted to tease Scott about what happened earlier. I wanted to rub the fact that he’d basically had phone sex with me right in his prudish, self-righteous face. I wanted to make him admit that he wants to fuck me, even though he doesn’t like me. I wanted to see that same hungry look in his eyes again, and I did. But instead of leaving him red-faced and ashamed, I ended up making a complete idiot of myself. I’m not even sure how it happened.

‘Amber.’

I hear the male voice behind me, recognise it instantly. I debate running off, but I decide that I’ve already done enough running for one day. I don’t think my boobs or my back could take the punishment.

‘Scott,’ I say, as he moves alongside me. He’s thrown a sweatshirt on over his kit. He offers me the bottle of water he’s carrying and I take it, because it seems less awkward than refusing, but I don’t look him in the face.

‘My car is just over there,’ he says. ‘Do you want a lift?’

I should refuse. I don’t need to make Scott Smithson fancy me in order to prove that I’m still attractive. I should say no and end this now, then we can both get back to not liking each other, and I can shag Lucas until I’ve worn him out. It’s a fantastic plan.

I don’t follow it. I follow Scott to his car instead. It’s a black BMW, so typically guy-with-a-good-job-and-no-ties that it almost makes me laugh. The lights flash and the boot pops open. Scott drops his bag inside, gestures for me to add mine too. Moving near enough puts me dangerously close to him, close enough to smell hot aftershave and hot skin, and my knees go suddenly weak. I sling my bag inside. It falls against his, soft pink fabric against creased black leather. I set my heels carefully down against my bag, then Scott closes the boot and ushers me round to the passenger side.

Such a gentleman. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less, really. Scott is nothing if not polite. I am the one who gets drunk and swears and shags random men at weddings. He opens the door for me and I tuck myself into the car. The leather seat is cool against my arms, my bare legs. I take a moment to inhale the smell of polish and Magic Tree and remind myself that I hate Scott Smithson.

Then he opens his door and folds himself into the driver’s seat. ‘Do you want me to take you straight home?’

I nod. I seem to have lost the ability to speak. I wish I’d lost it this afternoon, instead of saying all those filthy things I said to him on the phone. It’s odd, really, because I never usually care what anyone thinks of me, but I can’t seem to help it.

I want Scott Smithson to like me.

He closes his door and starts the engine, then puts the car in gear and pulls out of the car park, gliding easily into the traffic. ‘I’ve never seen you use the treadmills before. I didn’t think running was your thing.’

So that’s it? He doesn’t want to embarrass me about the phone call this afternoon, he wants to lecture me about my exercise habits? I stroke my hand over the edge of my seat. The pale leather is supple and smooth, like the flesh on a man’s upper back when he’s face down on the bed. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about touching Scott like that, but I am. I glance across at him. God, he is beautiful in profile, the lines of his face hard and masculine. He is also clearly not normal. We practically had phone sex this afternoon, for fuck’s sake, and he’s talking about gym equipment. ‘Why not?’

‘A lot of women assume it’s too vigorous,’ he says. He takes a left, pulls the car to a halt on a quiet side street. ‘Especially women with your body shape.’

The part of me that is still me jumps on that without hesitation. ‘By body shape, I take it you are referring to my tits?’

Scott closes his eyes. Then he turns to me. ‘Why do you do this, Amber?’

I feign innocence. ‘Do what?’

‘Turn everything into something crude, something dirty.’ He sounds tired, angry, frustrated, and I can’t help but poke at him some more, just to see what he will do.

‘You didn’t seem to mind this afternoon,’ I point out.

His jaw hardens, and he grips the steering wheel tightly. ‘What happened this afternoon was…’ He looks away from me for a long, heavy moment, then turns back to me again. ‘You use sex as a weapon, Amber. I’m not sure you even realise you’re doing it half the time.’

‘Believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing,’ I say, refusing to let the shock I feel show on my face. ‘I certainly got a kick out of making you stare.’ I unfasten my seatbelt and turn to face him, sliding my thumb under the strap of my gym top and playing with it. If he thinks I use sex as a weapon, then that’s just what I’m going to do. I ease the strap down over my shoulder then let it go, exposing the bare skin of my shoulder and half my left breast. His gaze falls hungrily onto that swell of exposed flesh, and oh yes, there’s the kick. I feel it right between my legs, a hot jolt of excitement.

I want to know why he stayed on the phone when he realised what was going on. I want to know why he lingered in the hotel room, when he could have walked out. I don’t care if he likes me or not, as long as he wants to fuck me. ‘Do you like looking at me, Scott? Did you like it when you caught me shagging someone in the hotel? Did you like it this afternoon, listening to me come?’

I’m being a complete cow, I know I am. I can tell from the look on his face that he hates this. I can tell from the way his dick is pushing against the front of his shorts that he’s turned on as hell. ‘Yes,’ he says, his voice low and hoarse and rough with frustration. ‘Damn it, Amber. Why are you doing this?’

‘Pissing you off entertains me,’ I tell him. ‘Always has.’

‘You’re a bitch,’ he says.

‘Pretty much.’ I shrug. ‘But then you’re an uptight bore. At least, that’s what you want people to think.’ I lean closer. ‘But it’s not true, is it, Scott? Did listening to me come make you hard? Did you sit in your office and wank yourself off as you listened to me, or did you sneak off somewhere so you could have a quick tug?’

And it’s then, as we sit in his flash BMW in our sweaty gym clothes, that Scott Smithson makes a move on me. I don’t know why I don’t see it coming. His hand finds the strap of my top wrapped around my arm and pulls it lower. He takes the heavy weight of my breast in his hot hand and squeezes. I pull my other breast free, hook a hand round the back of his neck, and pull his mouth down to the sensitive tip.

He hesitates, but only for a moment, and then he sucks me deep. Strands of pleasure stretch from my nipples to my clit and pull tight every time his tongue works my flesh. All that time on the running machine seems to have made it more sensitive, and the lap of his tongue feels positively rough. As for the scrape of his teeth…

‘Fucking hell, Scott,’ I moan, not to annoy him, but because I can’t think of another way to express what I’m feeling. I wonder if I could come just from this. Actually, fuck wondering. I want to find out. I bury my hands in his hair, the short strands of it soft against my palms, and hold him in place.