Indecent...Desires

by Jane O'Reilly

  Her wish is his command.

  By day, receptionist Meredith is a divorced, thirty-something controlaholic, organising the stationery cupboard and wondering if any of the dull-as-ditchwater suited execs in her office might turn out to be The One.

  By night, she watches from her darkened bedroom as a twenty-something Adonis pleasures himself at his window in the building across the road – following to the letter the instructions she has brazenly put through his letterbox.

  But when her sexy exhibitionist comes to work in her office, Meredith’s two worlds collide… It turns out that there are far more pleasurable uses for the stationery cupboard!

  Also available by Jane O’Reilly

  Indecent…Exposure

  Indecent…Proposal

  Indecent… Desires

  Jane O’Reilly

  www.CarinaUK.com

  JANE O’REILLY

  started writing as an antidote to kids’ TV when her youngest child was a baby. Her first novel was set in her old school and involved a ghost and lots of death. It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best. Then she wrote a romance, and that, as they say, was that. She lives near London with her husband and two children. Sign up for her newsletter at www.janeoreilly.com, or find her on Twitter as @janeoreilly and Facebook at www.facebook.com/janeoreillyauthor

  For Patrick

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Book List

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Endpages

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  I don’t remember when I first saw the man who lives in the flat opposite mine, primarily because I refused to allow myself to notice him. I mean, I noticed him. He’s young and pretty, exactly the sort of man I have no right to have any interest in, being thirty-four and divorced and a regular wearer of Spanx. So I kept him in my peripheral vision, forcing myself not to notice when he left his flat, or when he occasionally walked along the street in front of me. But I remember the first time I saw him perform.

  And by perform, I mean sit in front of his bedroom window and, you know, touch himself. It’s become a regular thing now. Every evening, I sneak into my bedroom at 8.55 p.m. At 9 p.m. his bedroom light goes on and the performance begins. When he didn’t appear last Saturday night it worried me so much that I almost called the police. The only thing that stopped me was wondering what I would say: Sorry officer, but the young man who lives across the street seems to have disappeared. How long has he been missing? Only this evening. Yes, I know that’s not very long, but he has a regular masturbation routine. You can set your watch by it.

  But he’s not absent tonight; in fact he’s very much present, sat on a chair in front of his window. We’re three floors up, so no one down on the street can see him. I don’t know if anyone but me can see him. I have my lights turned off, so he can’t see me, but I know that he knows I am watching.

  I know because I have been slipping notes into his letterbox on a daily basis and he has been following my instructions to a tee. Sometimes I ask him to wear a T-shirt, sometimes his boxers. Sometimes I request fully clothed. Tonight however, he’s naked, and I can see all those acres of tanned, beautiful skin. Lean and tight and gorgeous. He looks to be in his early twenties, which makes him ten years younger than me. A very horny ten years younger. A shudder runs through me as he strokes a hand over his erect penis and closes his eyes, as if he has been waiting all day to do this, as if he needs to do it.

  The first time I saw him like this, I had just got back from work and had gone into my bedroom to get changed, and there he was. Standing near his window, chatting on the phone, jeans dropped to his knees as he played with his cock. I had never seen a man behave so carelessly, with such a total lack of inhibition. Certainly my ex-husband had never been so blatantly rude. And it was rude, even though he was doing exactly what he was entitled to do in the privacy of his bedroom.

  So I watched as he stroked himself and laughed on the phone and came in quick, shuddering spurts, and then wiped himself and the floor with a towel. And there was a moment, a hot, shocking moment when he glanced in my direction and I thought he saw me.

  I ducked to the floor, my head in my hands, and crouched there for what felt like forever, my heart racing, my breath coming in short, fast pants. Caught in the act, the dirty voyeur perving on her younger neighbour. What on earth did I think I was doing?

  But when the shock died away and I remembered how to breathe, I couldn’t deny that it was the most exciting sexual act I’d ever participated in, even though I hadn’t really participated. And so I started waiting for him on a regular basis, night after night, hoping for a repeat performance. But it didn’t happen. Until one day, in a moment of madness, I slipped an anonymous note through the letterbox of his building addressed to the man on the top floor and asked him to stand by the window at nine that evening and jerk himself off.

  And he had.

  If I thought I’d been excited the first time I’d seen him, it was nothing compared to that night. It was a bit ridiculous, really. I’m thirty-four. I have a pension plan and my own flat and until six months ago I had a husband. I wasn’t some naive teenager who had never seen an erection before.

  But if I’m honest, it wasn’t just the sight of his cock that excited me, although I can’t deny that Mother Nature has been kind to him in that department. It wasn’t watching his body shake through his orgasm, though that definitely added something to proceedings.

  It was the fact that he did as he was told.

  So here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed, wearing the sensible black trousers and pressed white blouse that are an essential part of my job as a receptionist at an accountancy firm in town, waiting for him to start, waiting to see if today is the day that I crossed the line and asked for too much.

  I think of him as mine, though he’s not mine. He will never be mine. The fact that we’ve never met aside, he’s too young. And because as my ex-husband told me right before he left, no sane man could possibly tolerate a control freak like me.

  I grip the edge of the bed, my palms sweaty against the ironed cotton, and fight the urge to lean forwards, to get on my knees in front of the window so that I can get a better look at him. He’s so young, so beautiful, with that flop of dark hair over his forehead and fat-free body. Every time I watch him, I tell myself it is the last. That I won’t surrender to this again. And every night, I find myself twisting the sheets as I think up increasingly demanding scenarios for him to play out for me in front of the window. There seems to be no limit to my imagination.

  Tonight I have him stripped bare, every inch of skin uncovered apart from the base of his prick, around which is coiled a purple silk tie. His face moves into a grimace as he takes his cock in a tight grip and fucks into his hand, twisting his wrist as he reaches the end of his shaft. I know exactly how this is going to play out. He’s touching his balls now, tucking his fingers under them, exactly as my note told him to do. Play with your cock until you’re desperate to spill all that lovely, thick semen. Then pull the tie tight around your swollen prick, tight enough to hurt.

  I hold my breath, waiting, waiting, my breasts swollen and hot inside my bra, a sharp ache between my thighs. But I never do anything about it, because that would be wrong. That would mean acknowledging how much this excites me, and I should not be excited by it. And I have this terrible fear that if I touch myself, if I surrender to the feelings this creates in me, I wi
ll jinx it somehow. That it will end, that I will be found out. I don’t think I could handle the shame if that happened.

  So I sit and I watch, and the shame threatens to swamp me but I can’t look away. And on the opposite side of the street, the beautiful man who I like to watch stands up from his chair. He moves closer to the window, closer, until he can place one hand flat against the glass. His hand is still working, faster now, his balls jerking as he fucks himself with a tight fist. The end of his cock is dark and swollen, and I can see him bracing himself. He’s close, I think to myself. His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, but in my imagination they’re dirty, and that turns me on even more.

  He stares directly at my window as I hide in the darkness and watch him, my beautiful angel, as he takes that hand away from the window and pulls the tie tight, so tight that it makes me press a hand to my throat in shock. His face twists. You went too far, I think to myself. Far too far.

  I cannot breathe, cannot think, totally in his spell as he pauses, that tie knotted so tight round the base of his cock, keeping him hard. And then he angles his hips forwards, gives the end of his shaft a quick tug, and the whole world stands still as he stripes the window with streak after streak of thick, white come. He stands there, chest heaving, for what feels like forever as the evidence of his pleasure slides down the glass, his gaze fixed firmly on my window. Then his mouth curves into a smile, and he wipes a hand over his face, and those dimples that appear in his cheeks make me weak, and I know that I didn’t go nearly far enough.

  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 s
aucer 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.