Indecent...Desires by Jane O'Reilly

Author:Jane O'Reilly [O’Reilly, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781472094735
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

I leave him sprawled out on the bed and panting. I gather up my clothes, but I don’t put them on. I take the shirt from the hanger on the back of the door and put that on instead. It doesn’t fit me and I like that about it. It smells of him and I like that too.

I go into the living room, explore the pile of books on the table, then I go into the kitchen and explore the contents of his fridge and cupboards. He is, it is quite clear to see, a twenty-four-year-old single man living on his own. He is also, I quickly begin to realise, full of surprises. The cupboards in his living room are full of wires and circuit boards and other unidentifiable objects, which I suppose makes sense given that he works in IT. I find football boots next to the kitchen bin and sports kit in the washing machine, and a stack of cook books on a shelf in the kitchen. No sign of fishing tackle or the girly calendars that my ex-husband insisted on hanging in his office.

I know I’m intruding on his private space, but I can’t seem to stop myself looking. I want to know more about him. I want to know who Lucas is when he’s not sat naked in his window, pleasuring himself for my entertainment.

‘Find what you need?’

The voice comes from the doorway. I turn quickly, find him watching me. I tuck a stray curl of hair behind my ear, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t be looking through your things,’ I acknowledge. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

No, I think to myself. I am the one who hides, sitting in the darkness of my bedroom as he sits in the light and lets everyone see. He puts me to shame, he is so open, so free, so comfortable with himself. I think about those weeks I spent sending him anonymous notes, and questions rush into my mind.

‘Why did you do it?’ I ask, unable to stop myself. ‘Why did you follow my notes? You didn’t know it was me.’

‘I didn’t know who it was,’ he confesses. He’s pulled on a pair of white underpants, David Beckham-style briefs that emphasise the hair on his thighs and the beautiful shape of his penis and balls. ‘I knew you lived in that building, though. I hoped it was you. I imagined it was you, when I was touching myself.’ He looks a little shy, a little embarrassed as he says it, like he thinks he’s done something wrong. As if, after everything we’ve just done, that is the thing he’s ashamed of.

‘It could have been anyone watching you,’ I point out.

‘Yes, I know,’ he says. He opens the fridge and peers inside, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a distraction technique. He closes the door, a carton of orange juice in his hand, then finds glasses and pours some out. He pushes a glass in my direction.

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