Indecent...Desires Read online

  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 ove
r 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.

  Chapter Three

  I smile politely at Martin Banks as I make it back to my desk, trying to remember what we were talking about. My mind is a complete mess. I’ve just locked Lucas Brady in the stationery cupboard. I don’t know what came over me, other than that he had a hard on and I had to get myself away from him before I did something stupid.

  In hindsight locking him in the cupboard probably wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made, but I panicked. There’s no denying it. My heart is still racing dangerously fast as Martin Banks smiles at me. ‘Did he find what he needed?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ I beam at him. I can still rescue this. I can still appear intelligent and in control and get that invite to dinner.

  ‘Good, good,’ Martin Banks says. ‘He came highly recommended, you know. Seems a little young, but I’m sure you’ll keep him in line, Meredith.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say breathlessly. ‘You have no concerns there.’

  Here it comes, I think to myself. I prepare myself to smile, to look surprised, to accept graciously.

  ‘I’d better get to it, then. My first client is due in at ten.’ Martin Banks folds up the newspaper he’s been studying and moves away down the corridor with a nod. His route takes him past the stationery cupboard, the one I locked Lucas Brady in, and leaves me alone at my desk, wondering how I could have misread things so badly.

  Plus now I have a new problem. I have to figure out a way to get Lucas out of that cupboard without anyone realising that I locked him in there. I’m very proud of my spotless record at work. I am not about to tarnish it now. I am about to pick up my keys and let him out when a client arrives, and then another, and before I know it Lucas Brady has been locked in that cupboard for over an hour. I can’t believe that no one has noticed he is missing, but then I suppose that they all assume he is working in someone else’s office. And that I am supervising him, which in a way, I am.

  But I can’t leave him in there all day. As soon as the next opportunity arrives, I sneak back to the cupboard. I unlock the door and tiptoe away like the coward that I am. Hopefully he heard the key turn and will make his way out. I watch the corridor out of the corner of my eye as I type up a couple of invoices and answer the phone and make more coffee. I can almost convince myself that everything is as it should be.

  Except that it isn’t.

  Fifteen minutes later he still hasn’t come out of the cupboard, and panic is starting to get me again. I abandon my desk for the second time, march up to the cupboard and open the door. Lucas Brady is stood exactly where I left him. ‘What are you doing?’ I snap at him.

  ‘Waiting for you to tell me I can come out,’ he says.

  A shiver of excitement runs through me again, and this time it’s a big one. ‘You could have come out on your own,’ I tell him sharply, refusing to let him see the infuriating effect he’s had on me.

  ‘I suppose I could,’ he says, dropping his gaze to the floor. ‘Can I come out now?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘For god’s sake, yes.’

  I step back out into the corridor, wait for him to follow me, then lock the door. I should check that everything is still in place inside, but that will have to wait until later. I’m too wired, too tense to think about it right now. ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about that,’ I say, as we walk together back towards my desk. I walk fast, but he keeps up with me easily.

  ‘There is nothing to tell,’ he says. ‘I misbehaved, and you punished me.’

  Why is he saying these things? Why am I reacting to them? Why can’t I just be my usual professional self? For one long, awful moment I wonder if he knows that I am the person who has been slipping notes through his letterbox, but then I dismiss that thought. He couldn’t possibly know. I’ve been discreet. I’ve been careful. And it makes sense that a man who is willing to stand in his window and masturbate would be equally as risqué in other parts of his life. ‘Well, it’s done now,’ I say. ‘You should get back to work.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms French.’

  With that, he heads back in the direction of the offices, back to the computer he’s supposed to have been working on for the past hour. I head back to my desk and my work, back to emails and phone calls and letters and coffee. I tell myself that the situation has been dealt with. He’s clearly just a bit over-sexed, that’s all. I’d have a word with my boss, but then there’s the issue of the stationery cupboard lock-in, so it’s probably best to let the matter rest.

  But my brain won’t let it rest, and by half past five I am completely behind schedule. I am swamped with emails, there are several phone calls I have yet to return and we have run out of biscuits, mostly because I cannot stop eating them. It is a relief to turn off my computer, pick up my handbag and coat and head home, even though I have so much left to do. I will come in early in the morning, I decide, and finish it then.

  I say goodbye to the staff as I tidy my desk and pretend that everything is completely under control. It’s only a little lie – by tomorrow, I will be on top of everything again. Today has been a peculiar day, that’s all. Meeting my neighbour in the flesh has shaken me up more than I am willing to admit, and I need a little time to pull myself together, to calm myself down.

  It is only as I am about to leave that I realise that Lucas is still here. I should probably stay behind, make sure he does actually l
eave at some point, and doesn’t steal the computers he’s supposed to be working on, but my skin is greasy with exhaustion and I don’t think I can hack spending any time alone in the building with him. It feels too dangerous, too detrimental to my already fragile emotional state.

  I pull a notepad and pen from my drawer and scribble a quick list of instructions. The cleaners will lock up and set the alarm when they’ve finished, but I still need to make sure that he knows the procedure for the evening.

  I find him in the office at the very end of the corridor. He looks up as I knock briefly and then walk into the room, those dark, dark eyes making my skin tingle. It was OKwhen he was far away, on the other side of the window, nothing more than a fantasy, but he is too close and too real now, and I don’t like the things I feel when we are in the same room. I place the note on the desk top and slide it towards him.

  ‘Everyone has gone home,’ I say. ‘I assume you’re staying late.’

  He reaches out, touches the tips of his fingers to the edge of the note and pulls it closer, then glances down at it. His hair is messed where I assume he’s been running his hands through it, and he’s unfastened another button on his shirt, revealing more of that beautiful tanned skin.

  ‘Not too late,’ he says, lifting his gaze back to me. His eyes fix onto mine and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. ‘I have to be home by nine.’

  ‘Why nine?’ I hear myself ask. I hear the tremor in my voice, too. He always performs for me at nine.

  ‘I have something to do,’ he says. His voice is low, and there is something odd about the way he is watching me, as if he’s looking for something. ‘You see, there’s this woman lives in the flat opposite mine. She sent me a note this morning, asking me to do something for her, and I don’t want to disappoint.’