Indecent...Desires (4 page)

I have decided that my only option is to ignore it. To ignore him, as much as I possibly can. It's better this way, I tell myself.

He stops in front of my desk. ‘Good morning.'

‘You're late,' I point out, as I squeeze staples into a document and refuse to look at him. ‘You were supposed to be here an hour ago.'

‘I slept in,' he says, as if that excuses everything.

I didn't sleep at all, and I was still here on time. ‘And?'

‘I'm sorry,' he says softly. He places his hands on top of my desk and leans closer, giving me no choice but to look at him.

God, this is humiliating. ‘What for?'

‘For turning up late.' Of course he means this morning. Of course he isn't talking about last night. He can't possibly know how much what he did hurt me, when he only did what he should have done in the first place. I crunch my stapler through another pile of papers, wishing he would hurry up and leave. This is beyond embarrassing now. I am just a stupid thirty-something divorcee with a crush on a much younger man. It's desperate, really it is. And yet as I look at him now, I am filled to bursting with that powerful sense of longing. I wonder what he would do if I told him to get under my desk and put his mouth on my pussy and stay there until I tell him to come out. ‘Get to work,' I say.

I turn my attention back to my stapling. I don't want him to know the effect he's having on me. But when he turns and walks away, I watch the way the fabric of his trousers pulls tight across his arse, which is trim and muscular. I want to sink my teeth into that firm flesh. What sort of a woman thinks that? What sort of woman actually fantasises about biting a man on the arse? The sort who should be ashamed of herself. And I am. I am.

I reply to emails and update the diary and take coffee with milk and three sugars to a senior member of staff who only drinks black. ‘Are you all right, Meredith?' he asks, as I apologise and fluster and rush out to make a replacement cup.

‘Absolutely,' I say. ‘I do apologise. I don't know what I was thinking.'

Though I do. I know exactly what I was thinking. I settle myself back down at my desk and am in the middle of giving myself a severe talking to when the phone goes on my desk. Internal call. ‘Yes?'

‘Ms French, it's Lucas.'

‘What do you want?'

‘I'm having a bit of a problem,' he says. His voice sounds…strange.

‘What sort of problem?'

‘Well, you see, I…I looked at some things on the computer again. I didn't mean to. It was a mistake. Really, it was. But I saw this video, and this woman blindfolded this man and then she took him into this other room and got all these other women to give him a blowjob, only he didn't know and he thought it was her, and now I have an erection and I don't know what to do about it.'

I jerk back in my chair, clutching the phone tight in my hand. I don't know what I was expecting from him, but it wasn't this. It wasn't this at all. I dart a quick glance around the reception, my heart racing. What if someone heard? I press a hand against my throat as my breathing goes similarly out of control. Fortunately, there aren't any clients waiting, and the office doors are all closed.

Is this some sort of joke? Is he trying to humiliate me, to get his own back on for me watching him? If he is, I have to put a stop to it. I can't cope with this for another two weeks. I slip my feet back into my shoes, give my face a quick once-over with the make-up I keep in my top drawer, then I get to my feet and march over to the office he's currently working in. I open the door without even bothering to knock and close it firmly behind me. It's not quite a slam but it's not far off.

‘If this is to do with what happened last night' I say, ‘I think you should know that I find your behaviour shockingly unprofessional.' I fold my arms. My breasts feel heavy, sensitive under my cream silk blouse. It's hard to even breathe the same air as him.

‘What happened last night?' he asks, a look of puzzlement creasing his face.

‘You…I…' I fluster the words out, then stop and stare at him. He
knows
. I know he does. So why is he pretending otherwise? He sits perfectly still, watching me with those dark, dark eyes. At first glance, he seems calm, but on closer inspection, I can see that he isn't. His hands are clenched so tightly on top of the desk that his knuckles are white, and he's breathing a little too fast.

Something is happening here, something I don't fully understand. I stay where I am, unable to move, unable to take my gaze off him. I want to tell him to stop, to leave, but I don't. I can't. My voice, when I find the words that I need, is faint and unsteady. ‘What do you want from me?'

‘I told you,' he says. ‘I've been watching porn on the company computers again. And I know you already spoke to me about misuse of the company internet, but I can't seem to make myself follow the rules.'

‘Excuse me?'

‘I don't know what came over me,' he says. ‘I don't know why I did it. I couldn't help myself.'

I stare at him in disbelief, as strange fluttering sensation starts up in the pit of my stomach. ‘You're serious,' I say.

‘Yes.'

He's…is he
flirting
with me? I'm sure that he is, and yet he can't be. My brain is an addled mess, and I switch onto autopilot.‘It's disgusting,' I say. ‘I am aware of your relative youth and inexperience, Mr Brady, but I'm sure that even you are aware that watching pornography at work is unacceptable.'

He hangs his head. ‘I know. But now I have an erection, and I don't know what to do about it.'

‘Deal with it as you normally would,' I say smoothly, even as my throat goes dry and I fight the urge to tell him to stroke himself until he comes all over the top of the gleaming black desk.

‘I would normally have a wank,' he says. ‘But I'm not allowed to do that at work. I know I'm not.' The he lifts his head, and fixes those dark, dark eyes on me. ‘It would be OKif you told me to do it.' He fiddles with the pen on top of the desk.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' I say, but the words come out slowly, faintly. Because he's right. I could tell him to do it. I could tell him to unfasten his trousers, to do it right now, right here in front of me. And he would do it, I know he would.

That realisation hits me right in the pit of my stomach.

‘Please,' he says. ‘All you have to do is tell me to unfasten my trousers and take out my cock, then wrap my fingers tightly around it and pump away until I shoot my load.'

I blink. ‘I am not going to tell you to touch your cock.' I can't believe I said that word out loud, in here, right now. I can't believe any of this is happening. But it is.

Lucas makes a strange sound, a pained sort of moan. ‘Oh, fuck,' he says. ‘Please say I can, Ms French. Please say I can, and that you are going to stay here and make sure I do it properly.'

Oh, god.
The temptation is almost beyond me, close to unbearable, a hot rush of desire that makes my mouth water and my skin tingle and my clitoris ache. This is worse than anything I felt watching him through the safety of my window, when he was so far away and I was anonymous and it was nothing more than a fantasy, and I want to oblige him so very, very badly.

But I can't. It would be inappropriate and wrong. He is so much younger than me, and I am in a position of power and authority. And there is the real possibility that we might get caught. And the even more terrifying possibility that if I say yes to him now, if I do this, it will open up something inside me that I'm not sure I want to be opened. I have to control the part of me that is excited at the thought of bossing him around, of punishing him for his behaviour.

I close my eyes for a long, long moment, bite down on my bottom lip. ‘Please,' I say, my voice quiet. ‘Please don't make me do this.'

And then I turn on my heel and march out of the room.

Three days later, I am still in a state of unbearable, exhausted anxiety. Lucas has appeared at his bedroom window each night, just as he always does. The first two nights, he did nothing more than undress. Then last night, he placed a chair in the window and sat on it with his back to me. I could see from the movement of his shoulder that he was pleasuring himself, but he didn't let me see. And the less I could see, the more I wanted to.

It's almost as if he is taunting me.

I haven't put another note through his door. I gave myself away and so I have to end the game. It's for the best, I know it is. But I can't stop myself thinking about it, or wishing that things were different. I won't send another note. I won't. But I want to. If I'm honest, I want to more than ever. Every move that he makes – from turning up late, to leaving early, to that performance last night – is designed to annoy me. He's goading me, I know he is. Seeing how far he can push me before I surrender and give him what he wants. He wants me to punish him, make him see the error of his ways. What Lucas Brady wants, I now realise, is to have a woman tell him what to do.

But I am not that woman. I can't be. I want a nice, sensible husband, the sort who earns fifty grand a year and can choose from a wine list and knows how to change a tyre. A mature, responsible man ready for marriage and fatherhood. Someone who won't bring out the bossy side of me, the side that my ex-husband so hated, the side that destroyed my marriage. I don't have time to get tangled up with a young, beautiful man. There's nothing at the end of that path except more tears, all of them mine, and an awful lot of embarrassment, again, all mine.

And that's why I have to keep my distance from Lucas Brady. I sit at my desk, listening to the slow drip drip drip of the coffee machine and staring mindlessly at my computer screen, where I am running a game of Patience in lieu of doing any work. I can't seem to get anything done, to focus on anything, and I am making so many mistakes that other people have started to notice. It has twice been suggested that I take a holiday, a fortnight on a beach somewhere. I've answered politely, but only just. Why I would want to pay a fortune to fly somewhere to lie on a sun lounger and think about him is beyond me.

So when my computer pings to tell me that I have a new email, and I see that the email in question is from Lucas and is titled ‘help me', I am in no mood for any more of his games. I click the email open, thinking that a typed reply will be far better for my sanity than actually breathing the same air as him.

The egg timer spins, spins again, and then the email opens and there, in front of me, is a somewhat grainy but otherwise clear image of the office Lucas is currently working in. I can see the desk, the window, the potted palm that I watered just this morning. Everything is just as it should be, apart from the clearly pornographic image on the computer monitor, and the fiercely erect penis in the foreground of the shot.

Right,
I think to myself.
This time he really has gone too far.
I delete the email, then I get to my feet and march over to the office that he's currently in. I'm so furious that I don't even bother to put on my shoes or check my make-up. I swing open the door. ‘Mr Brady,' I say, my voice so bossy it's bordering on shrill. ‘We need to talk.'

He looks up from the desk, and it's then I realise that he is not alone. I silently work through a stream of expletives as Martin Banks looks up at me from his position next to Lucas. This is his office, so he has every right to be in here.

‘Is there a problem, Meredith?'

I shake my head. ‘Of course not.' I try to smile, but I suspect, judging by the way Martin Banks looks at me that it comes out wrong.

I'm backing out the door when Lucas turns to him. ‘I made a few changes to Ms French's computer,' he says. ‘There's a possibility that I might have inadvertently corrupted a few of her files.'

‘I assume you can fix it,' Martin says.

‘Absolutely,' Lucas replies. ‘Are you all right with the new setup here?'

‘It all seems pretty straightforward,' Martin says. ‘I'll call you back in if I have any problems.'

‘Sorted.' Lucas flashes Martin Banks a quick grin as he gets to his feet and starts to walk in my direction.

I can't believe how close I just came to being caught. I can't believe that I let my temper get the better of me. I can't believe how far Lucas Brady has pushed me today, and I have to deal with it before it gets worse.

I've let him get away with too much. And ignoring him hasn't worked, so it's clearly time to try a different tack. I swing back by my desk and grab my keys, and then I once again find myself marching Lucas Brady in the direction of the stationery cupboard. I don't know what I'm going to do when I get him in there, but we have to talk and we have to do it somewhere private.

I unlock the door and push him inside. I actually put my hand on his back and push him. He's warm and firm, and I feel the delicious flex of muscle under my hand as he resists, and lust explodes inside me, a crashing wave of completely inappropriate desire. ‘You have got to stop this,' I say. He moves into the small space then turns around to face me, though he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. ‘Look at me,' I order him.

He does as he's told. His gaze lifts to mine, his eyes almost black with lust, his chest heaving as if he's struggling for air, as if he's finally realised that this time he's pushed me too far, that this time he is going to get his way. And I want him to, so badly, that I can barely cope with it. ‘Stop sending me emails,' I say. ‘Stop ringing me up to tell me you're looking at porn.' I can feel my frustration building, though it still takes me by surprise when it explodes out of me. ‘And stop standing in your window and touching yourself and not letting me see!'

I clap a hand over my mouth, but it's too late. I once thought it would destroy the fantasy if I admitted that I am the one who watches him, even though at this point I know we both know. But it doesn't. It only heightens it, makes it seem more wrong, somehow. And the more wrong it feels, the more it excites me. I lean back against the door, because my legs are weak and I'm not sure they will hold me.