Indecent...Proposal. Jane O'Reilly
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make my way to upright, shake back my hair. ‘Not much.’ I glance at my phone. Call ended, says the screen in neon pink text.
Not much at all.
I show Lucas around a few more flats. The last one is on the top floor of what was once an imposing Victorian family home. The bedroom has a wide bay window that overlooks the street. Lucas walks around it, as I sit on the windowsill and try to ignore my damp underwear. ‘I’ll take it,’ he says, a couple of minutes later.
Job done. Five minutes after that, he’s got a slack grin on his face and I’ve got a mouthful of spunk, so I guess you could say that job is done too. I refuse to let myself think about what Scott Smithson would say if I offered to give him a blowjob, so my brain fixates on Paul and Victoria instead. They’re on their honeymoon in the Seychelles now, doing what honeymooners do.
Paul had been my lover first. The relationship had been exciting, secretive. Estate Agents have keys for plenty of empty houses. For months, our entire relationship was conducted behind other people’s front doors, and I loved it. It made me feel special, wanted, wicked. Then Victoria joined the agency. And Paul started sleeping with her too, only I didn’t know about it. Then he fell in love with her. The sex he’d been having with me was nothing more than that. Sex. But it turned out that Victoria had a thing for blondes with big tits. And it turned out that I got a kick out of Paul watching me tangle with her.
So for six wicked months, the three of us played together. But it’s over now, it has to be, and what I need is a distraction, a new way to play. Lucas is definitely game, I know that, but as I look at him, I can’t shake the feeling that I need something else. Something not quite so…easy.
Scott Smithson isn’t easy. He doesn’t even like me. And I know it’s nothing more than my ego talking, but god, the thought that he might be attracted to me excites me beyond belief. And that’s what has me locking up the office twenty minutes early and making my way over to the gym. I swipe my card through the reader, push my way into the changing room and swap my office gear for Lycra and Nikes. Usually I do a class, something high intensity and women only. I don’t mind men watching me bounce and sweat, but I’d rather they were handpicked and weren’t doing it publicly. That’s the problem with being blonde and top-heavy. Men think it gives them the right to stare, even the bald, fat ones who are old enough to be my dad.
I shove my stuff into a locker, take the key and take a moment to check my hair in the mirror. It gets a pass. Then iPod in hand, I make my way out to the main room of the gym, the one that houses all the running and rowing machines. It’s five-thirty, and the place is already busy.
I feel the weight of several male stares, but I shake them off and focus on my target. Scott Smithson is already on a treadmill. The one next to his is empty and I dart towards it, but I’m not quick enough. A leggy brunette thrusts her water bottle in the holder, jumps her feet onto the sides. She thumbs the buttons and is quickly into a run that makes me wince.
She catches my gaze in the mirror, slides a sideways glance at Scott, then catches my eye again and gives an almost imperceptible smirk. Bitch. The bloke on the other side of Scott is sweating, liquid dripping from the end of his nose, his vest sticking to his hairy back. Eww. But as I always tell myself, go big or go home. So I saunter up to the sweaty bloke, fix on a smile and tuck my hair behind my ears. The dashboard on his treadmill says he’s been hogging it for the past forty-five minutes, and the sign on the wall clearly says users are allowed a maximum of thirty.
‘You must be so fit!’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine anyone running for forty-five minutes. I can barely manage ten.’
I can see him considering whether to ignore me or not. Then his gaze falls on my cleavage. ‘You have to learn to pace yourself,’ he says between gritted teeth.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Could you show me how to do that? How to pick the right pace?’
He hesitates, then slows the machine to a crawl. His hands drop to his hips as sweat drips all over the machine. Then he stops, steps down, gestures for me to get on. I hop up, wishing I’d had the foresight to grab a couple of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall.
‘We’ll start you off slowly,’ he says. He reaches across, but I wave him away.
‘I’ve got this,’ I say. I thumb the on switch, steadily increase the pace until I’m running at a comfortable jog. Just because I don’t use the stuff in here often doesn’t mean that I can’t use it. I might be blonde, but I’m not stupid.
The man stills, then realises he’s been had and walks off, muttering something rude under his breath. I flick him the bird in the mirror, but he’s too busy being pissed off to notice. And then I turn my attention to Scott.
His gaze is focused straight ahead as he runs at a steady pace, arms pumping. White wires trail from his ears to the dark band that circles one of his impressively cut biceps. I can see the woman on the other treadmill desperately trying to catch his attention. A spark of jealousy flares up inside me.
I’ll show her how to make him look. I thumb the speed button on my treadmill until my feet are pounding the machine. I can feel all the muscles in my body starting to burn, and my sports bra starting to lose its fight against the weight of my breasts.
That gets his attention. A surreptitious slide of his gaze across the mirror, quickly whipped away when he realises I’ve noticed. I keep running. My heart is pumping a strong, steady rhythm, and I feel fit and alive. But oh god, the bounce. With each step, my breasts fight the tight confines of my bra. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going.
I’m starting to wonder why I came here, why I’m doing this to myself. It’s not as if I need Scott Smithson. If I want to play, I’ve got Lucas for that. He’s more than capable and more than willing, and he won’t list all my flaws when we’re done.
And if I wanted a workout, there is a great class at seven. Usually I’m on my way into it just as Scott is on his way out. He gets to see me with my make-up still in place, my gym clothes fresh. I get to see him sweaty and exhausted as he heads off to shower. It has always made me feel superior, and I realise that I needed that to help me deal with him.
I’m not feeling superior now. I’m still running, keeping my pace, but my mouth is open and I’m breathing loud and hard. My face is red and my armpits are soggy, and there’s no escaping the pain in my breasts. It takes me a heartbeat to decide that I’ve had enough. I drop the speed to a walk, trying to at least make my exit look dignified and intentional, and not like defeat.
I fight the urge to hook an arm under my breasts and hold them steady, then I think oh, fuck it and do it anyway. It’s not like I have much dignity left now. It’s then that I realise Scott is staring at me. He’s still running, still pounding out the beat to whatever music is blasting through his headphones, and he’s staring at me with the same raw hunger that I saw back in the hotel, when he caught me with Lucas.
I stumble, nearly losing my footing on the treadmill. The brunette sniggers, and that finishes me off. I’m sweaty and sore, and I don’t know why I came here. It’s too confusing, too much for me right now. I slam the red button that stops the machine, climb off it with shaking legs, then head to the changing rooms as fast as dignity will allow. I empty out my locker without bothering to shower – I can do that when I get home – then push my way to the exit with my kit bag slung over my shoulder and my heels in my hand.
Outside it’s still light, and I’m heading for the car park when I remember that I didn’t bring my car today, I walked. I stop where I am and rub my hand over my face, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I came here because I wanted to tease Scott about what happened earlier. I wanted to rub the fact that he’d basically had phone sex with me right in his prudish, self-righteous face. I wanted to make him admit that he wants to fuck me, even though he doesn’t like me. I wanted to see that same hungry look in his eyes again, and I did. But instead of leaving him red-faced and ashamed, I ended up making a complete