Читать книгу Indecent...Desires - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 10

Chapter Two

The scene is still playing out in my mind as I make my way into work the next morning. I like to arrive twenty minutes earlier than everyone else, so I can drink coffee and peruse the stationery cupboard and generally enjoy the space and the new carpet smell. I like to be prepared when the rest of the staff walk in. Being late is my worst nightmare.

But this morning I’m wired, unable to settle, and the coffee only makes me feel worse. I didn’t sleep well and none of my usual remedies worked. All I could think about was the man on the other side of the road. I wondered what he thinks when he reads my little notes, who he thinks is sending them, why he follows them.

When I’d done with those thoughts, when I’d chased them round in circles for hours and got nowhere, I started to think about what I could do to push him further. What I could make him do next. I have so many ideas, so many shocking, filthy ideas. Just when I think I’ve reached my limit, my brain conjures up some new scenario. Take the one that I wrote on the note I slipped through his letterbox this morning, which told him to film tonight’s session and upload it onto the internet.

The problem with all this is that it leaves me incredibly aroused, which isn’t a good state to be in at work. I cannot think straight with this hot, furious urge, my whole body so tense that I feel like I might explode if anyone comes near me. I check the clock that hangs on the wall behind my desk. I’ve got twenty minutes before anyone else arrives. It’s enough. I lock my handbag in my bottom drawer, and then I quietly slip away to the loo. The stalls are empty, the whole place filled with the lingering scent of lemon cleaner, and it’s probably the most disgusting place in the world for what I am about to do, but I have to. I can’t stand it any longer. I lock myself in a cubicle, take a deep breath. One last chance to talk myself down from this. But I can’t, I can’t.

Time is of the essence now. I’ve got to hurry. I’ve worked so hard to build up my reputation here, sensible Meredith, reliable Meredith, Meredith who can handle anything we throw at her. Meredith, who masturbates in the toilets because she’s too desperate to wait and too uptight to do it at home. Maybe my ex-husband was right. Maybe there is something wrong with me.

There’s definitely something wrong with me, I think, as I shove a hand deep into my bra and pinch my nipple tightly between finger and thumb. The relief I feel is palpable, though it fades into insignificance compared with what I feel when I push a hand into my underwear and stroke myself through the lace. I dig my feet into the floor and finger myself in earnest. My clit is swollen and when I slide my fingers into my slit, I find plenty of slippery wetness. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take my time over this, to savour it, but my ex always said that I took too long. He also said that I wanted it too much, that it wasn’t normal for a woman to want it that much, which is why I try so hard to resist.

But I’ve been failing more and more, recently. Oh, my intentions are good. But I don’t seem to be able to hold onto them, not when I’ve spent all night dreaming of the man across the road, when the ache is so severe that I can hardly function.

Focus, Meredith. Focus. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and think only about the ache between my thighs, about how much better I will feel when that ache is gone. I rub myself harder, even though it makes my wrist ache. I bite into my bottom lip as I feel my clit swell, as I think about the man over the road and the show he puts on for me. I wonder what he would do if he knew that he’s becoming an addiction I don’t know how to control.

But I must control it. I’m thirty-four and I want a husband and a baby and I am not going to get either this way. But oh, that beautiful hard stomach and that cut of muscle right above his hip bones, and that gorgeous thick cock. I bite down on my lip harder as I feel the rush of orgasm move through me, the explosive way my muscles contract and release, wave after wave of it, almost as if my body is no longer under my control and I am just a passenger along for the ride.

I wait for it to subside, but I don’t wait too long. A courtesy flush and I slip out of the cubicle and then wash my hands, trying to wash away the remnants of my dirty behaviour. The soap is creamy and smells of roses and it makes my hands feel dry, but at least they’re clean. My face is a bigger problem, though. The flush in my cheeks is fading and thanks to a generous application of hairspray my hair is still intact, but there’s nothing make-up can do for shame, and I’ve got a thick layer of it all over me. I rip my gaze away from the mirror and head back to my desk. There’s no point standing there looking at my guilty face. I can’t stare it away.

My desk is exactly as I left it, only it isn’t. Because there is a man standing in front of it, his back to me. I take in hair the colour of milk chocolate and the shoulders and lean waist of a man in his early twenties. He’s wearing a close-fitting knit jumper, with a messenger bag slung across his body so that it rests against his bum.

‘Yes?’ I say. ‘Can I help you with something?’ I use my work voice, the one my ex-husband used to call my bossy voice, the one he’d parrot back at me when I got too loud, or too opinionated. I try not to use it, I do, but sometimes it just slips out, and I guess now is one of those times.

‘That depends,’ he says, as he turns around. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, insolently casual, and some sort of identity pass slung around his neck. His jumper is baby-blue, but his eyes are dark and his mouth makes me stumble.

It’s you. I don’t know how I keep those words in. Any minute now they’re going to burst out of me and he’s going to ask what I mean, and I’m going to have to think of an answer, preferably one that doesn’t include any references to the fact that I’ve been secretly watching him masturbate on an almost daily basis for the past month. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here to overhaul your computer system,’ he says calmly. ‘I’m Lucas. Lucas Brady.’

‘Of course you are,’ I say faintly, as I move behind my desk and take my seat. I set my hands to my keyboard, pretending that I’m in control of them.

‘It usually works better if you turn it on first,’ he says. And then he smiles at me, and I swear something inside me explodes. When it hits my face in the form of a red hot blush, I realise what it is. But I am Meredith the Unflappable, so I stiffly turn on my computer and offer him coffee and biscotti as I wait for it to boot up.

He accepts politely, even though I was hoping he wouldn’t. ‘You knew I was coming, right?’ he asks, as I slide the white cup and saucer in his direction, together with the sachets of brown sugar and the cream.

No. Not you. ‘Absolutely,’ I say. I even manage to sound sincere.

‘Good,’ he says. And then there’s a pause while he doctors his coffee – two sugars, I notice – and then he says ‘Have we met?’

‘No,’ I say instantly. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d remember if we had.’

‘Hmm,’ he says, and that’s when I notice the sparkle in his eyes. They’re dark, very dark, but there’s a fire in them, a wickedness that makes me wonder, just for a second, if he somehow knows that I’m the person who has been sending him naughty notes.

But I can’t very well ask him. Fortunately, my computer has booted up, so I log into the system and check through the diary for today, and there he is, Lucas Brady. He’s scheduled to be here every day for the next two weeks.

Two weeks. Every day for two weeks. I don’t know if I can cope with that.

‘Would you like to get started?’ I ask him. I’m getting to my feet as I say the words, because I want him out of here. I can’t breathe. I need a moment, possibly a lot more than a moment, to catch my breath and wonder what bizarre twist of fate has brought him into my office.

I find myself staring at his mouth, and then at his body, which is concealed by that baby-blue sweater, and then lower, at his crotch. I suspect that I might actually stare at it for quite a long time, because when I finally realise what I’m doing and plant my gaze back on his face he’s looking at me with an odd expression. ‘How old are you?’ I blurt out.

‘Twenty-four,’ he says.

‘Right,’ I say. I hammer something random into the keyboard. ‘I just needed that for our records.’

‘Sure,’ he says. There’s a tone of disbelief in his voice that I don’t like at all.

I straighten up and glare at him, or more correctly, I glare up at him. He’s a lot taller than I’d realised. A lot taller. Not ridiculously taller, but definitely taller than my ex-husband. I’m wearing heels and he still has a couple of inches on me. It sends a faint frisson of excitement down my spine, a sensual shiver that I do my best to ignore. This is no good. No good at all. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’ I say sharply, and there’s no disguising the bossy tone.

Lucas stiffens. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Ms?’

He said Ms. No one ever says Ms. They all glance at my hand and then give me Miss with a faint pitying sneer. Or they simply opt for Mrs. Another shiver works its way through me.

‘French,’ I say. I straighten my shoulders; dare him to make something of it.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, adjusts the strap of his bag. ‘I’ll get started then,’ he says. ‘And I’ll try not to get under your feet, Ms French.’ He doesn’t move, though, just stands there, watching me.

I sit myself down at my desk and raise an eyebrow, giving him my best haven’t you got things you should be doing look. He waits for a moment, a long moment, and then he picks up his coffee and heads off in the direction of the offices and only at this point does it occur to me that perhaps I should have shown him around. And perhaps I should have got him to sign in. But something about the way he said my name, like it was a dirty word, made me lose my train of thought.

Though perhaps if I had been at my desk when he arrived and not masturbating in the toilets, I would have had more control of things. But given that it’s his fault I was masturbating in the toilets in the first place, perhaps my irritation is justified.

I do not know how I am going to survive two weeks with him hanging around the office. This was not part of the plan. Still, Martin Banks will be in soon, and that is part of the plan. Martin Banks is in his late thirties, appropriately older than me, with an appropriate level of income (I checked) and, as far as I can tell, no inappropriate sensibilities. I also know that he is single and has appropriate ideas about marriage and children. Oh, I know what they say about workplace relationships, but where else am I supposed to meet a man I can vet properly? I don’t want to end up in another disastrous relationship.

Today Martin Banks is going to ask me out to dinner, I’m sure of it. We will go to the Italian on Bridge Street, I will accept dessert but not drink more than two glasses of wine, and he will kiss me firmly but politely at my doorstep. I’ve got it all planned.

Thinking this through, I open my bottom desk drawer, pull out my makeup bag and proceed to fix up my face. A touch more blusher, some powder, a neatening of my lipstick. There. I do not need to worry about twenty four year old exhibitionists. Even if they are in the office at the end of the hall.

I welcome the other staff as they come in, then the first couple of clients. Today is going to be a good day, I can feel it. I refuse to feel the hot ache that persists between my thighs. I refuse to think about Lucas Brady. Only I can’t stop thinking about Lucas Brady. He has been in the office at the end of the hall with the door firmly closed for what seems like an impossibly long time. Perhaps he would like more coffee. Perhaps more biscuits are in order. Perhaps he needs someone to keep him on track.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pour the coffee and arrange some biscuits nicely on a plate and walk towards that office door. I knock briskly and then I push the door open. ‘I brought you some more coffee,’ I say.

His head jerks up. He’s sat behind the desk, which is black, in keeping with the tidy, modern theme of the office. He’s stripped off the baby-blue jumper, revealing a striped shirt that fits indecently close. It is open at the collar, giving me a casual flash of skin, and I find my heart suddenly pounding, my mouth suddenly dry. I should put the drink and the plate on the desk and leave. I should not linger, or talk. But I do both. ‘Are you making progress?’

‘Yes,’ he says.

That’s when I realise he’s watching me. He’s watching me with the wary eyes of someone who is about to be caught doing something they shouldn’t. And that makes me wonder what that something is. I walk towards the desk, carefully put the coffee down. ‘Two sugars,’ I say.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’ He lifts a hand to the screen and carefully angles it away from me.

‘Any idea how much longer it’s going to take?’

‘For this one? Or for all of them?’

God, he is beautiful. His skin is tanned and smooth, his eyelashes long. He is quite possibly the loveliest man I have ever laid eyes on. But it is ridiculous that I am letting this thought take up space in my brain, because a pretty young man is not part of the plan. I have no use for a man like this, and it is distinctly unlikely that he has any use for a woman like me.

And yet there is electricity in the air when I look at him, a tension in the room and in his dark, dark eyes that I cannot ignore and I cannot deny. I should leave the room now. I have work to do, and so does he, and I have nothing more to say, and yet I can’t. His gaze remains steady on my face. I’d like to say that he’s looking at me, that he sees something in me that he can’t look away from, but I am not that stupid.

He is looking at me so he can avoid looking at the computer screen.

I take a deep breath, breathe in the moment, breathe him in. And then, for some reason, a reason I can’t fathom, I put my hand on the corner of the monitor and jerk it round. There on the screen is an exquisitely beautiful woman, with dark glossy hair and generous breasts, sitting on the face of a naked and thrillingly well-endowed man.

Silence stretches between us, long and heavy. The image is almost hypnotic, the woman arching her back in ecstasy as the man lowers a hand to his erection and starts to fondle himself. I know what I’m supposed to say in these circumstances, how I’m supposed to react. I know I should be disgusted but I’m not, and I cannot stop myself looking at the screen. What they’re doing is just so…delicious, and oh, he’s stroking himself harder, and…

Lucas’s hand shoots to the mouse and he closes the window. It vanishes instantly, as if it had never been there, as if the past thirty seconds had existed only in my imagination, but I continue to stare at the screen, shocked to find myself willing the image to come back. ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ he says.

I straighten up, smooth down my blouse, Unflappable Meredith, though inside I’m shaking. What is wrong with me? ‘I will be keeping an eye on you,’ I say. ‘This sort of behaviour is not acceptable at work. I’ll let it pass, just this once, but don’t let me catch you again, Mr Brady.’

‘Of course not, Ms French.’ His attempt to look contrite falls flat. He doesn’t look sorry at all. He looks…excited, and what disturbs me the most is how much I like it. How much I want to close the door and tell him to put that video back on so that I can straddle him in that generously-sized swivel chair and smother him with my wet pussy as I watch it.

I can’t be in the room with him right now. I shouldn’t be thinking this way. I turn on my heel and stride out of the room, back to my desk, where the phone is ringing and the emails are piling up and the coffee pot is empty and Martin Banks is waiting.

I greet him with a smile, and make small talk as I pour him coffee and ask about his weekend. I know I am exactly the sort of woman he needs, organised and sensible. I would be an asset to his life. I smile and laugh, and he is on the verge of asking me out for dinner, I just know he is, when Lucas Brady comes walking up to the desk. Not only is he still not wearing his jumper, he’s rolled up his sleeves and untucked his shirt. He looks faintly dishevelled, as if he threw on the first thing that came to hand when he got up this morning.

My stomach flutters. ‘Yes?’ I know that comes out rudely, but the stomach fluttering is annoying, and Martin Banks was about to ask me to dinner and Lucas Brady spoilt it.

‘Can you tell me where you keep the stationery?’ he asks.

I am so flustered that I don’t even think to ask him what he wants or what he wants it for. I have an ample supply of stationery in my desk drawers and could easily give him a pen or whatever it is that he needs. I pick up my keys and ask Martin Banks to excuse me, then I motion to Lucas Brady to follow me.

He walks a little behind me, so that I can’t see him but I can feel his gaze on me as we walk along the corridor. Outside the stationery cupboard, I stop, then select the correct key and push it into the lock. Before I turn it, I glance back over my shoulder at him.

His hands are back in his pockets, his hair falling into his face, and I know this is wrong, I know I should just open the door and let him in, but I don’t. ‘I can’t believe you were using our computer system to look at porn.’

His gaze slides to the ground, and a faint blush hits his cheeks. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.’

I am so irritated that I can feel it growing inside me, taking on a life of its own. I open the cupboard door and usher him inside. But instead of going back to my desk, as I know I should, I go into the cupboard with him. I close the door behind me, and lean back against it. An utterly foolish move, given that the more time I spend in his company, the more likely it is that I’ll say something to give myself away. I have to keep reminding myself that as far as he is concerned, we have only just met, and I haven’t been watching him through my window for weeks. But if this morning’s behaviour is anything to go by, I need to put him in his place, and fast.

‘Mr Brady,’ I begin. I fold my arms, find myself almost shaking. Why did it have to be him, invading my place of work, my space? Why did he have to move in across the road from me? Why did he have to enter my life at all? ‘We have certain standards here. A dress code, for starters, as well as a strict computer use policy. And the way you are behaving is really most unacceptable.’

I stop myself then, horrified by how shrill my voice has become. I pause, waiting for the laughter, the comments about my bossy nature, but they don’t come. Instead, there’s more blushing. More hands tucked in pockets, more staring at the floor, more mumbled apologies. I’m about to let it go at that, when I find myself staring at his crotch again.

My mouth goes dry and for a second I can’t hear. There, perfectly outlined against the fabric of his snug-fitting black trousers, is a huge erection. It is so blatant, so obvious, that I can’t stop looking at it. I don’t want to stop looking at it. There is something shockingly erotic about seeing the shape of his cock under the fabric. His trousers are pinning it in place, and my eyes trace the curved bulge of his testicles, then the wide length of his erection pointing down the left leg of his pants. As if he can feel the weight of my gaze on him, he places a hand over it, as if a hand can hide it.

He’s touching himself. A sound escapes from me, a faint little thing. I look at him, and the wanting almost overwhelms me. ‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ I snap. And then, before I can do something completely insane, like drop to my knees in front of him and suck his cock until he comes on my tongue, down my throat, I march out of the cupboard, slam the door shut, and lock it firmly behind me.