Indecent...Desires. Jane O'Reilly
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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
HQ
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Jane O’Reilly 2014
Jane O’Reilly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472094735
Version date: 2018-07-23
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 It’s unpublished, which is probably for the best.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
Book List
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
About the Publisher
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