Jane O'Reilly - Indecent...Exposure

It occurs to me that Tom Hunt isn’t the person I thought he was, which is terrifying to say the least. ‘Oh,’ I say, my mouth fumbling for the words. ‘Right. Yes. I probably should have told you about that. You have to flick the switch on the wall to turn on the heater. It takes ages. I wasn’t expecting you to come, so I didn’t turn it on earlier. Sorry about that.’

He raises an eyebrow, and I realise what I’ve just said, and the inevitable blush is fast and fierce. Tom Hunt is too much and too here for me to deal with right now, but there are so many questions banging round inside my head. The inevitable happens. One of them spills out. ‘Why did you do it?’

He fastens his jacket. ‘Why did I do what?’

Why did you look at me when you came? ‘Why did you agree to have those photos done with Amber?’

He shrugs. ‘Because she asked me to.’

‘Because she asked you to? Seriously?’

‘She was stood behind me in the queue at the bank,’ he says. ‘We got chatting, and she was telling me about her boyfriend getting engaged to someone else. She seemed pretty cut up about it. I suggested she fuck one of his friends, but she said no, she had a better idea.’ He straightens his tie. ‘She told me about your little sideline, and asked if I fancied a blowjob. You know the rest.’

I’m blinking too fast. I’m breathing too fast. ‘Please don’t say things like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the…the word with f in it.’ He’s so casual about it. I can’t even say it. ‘And the other thing.’

‘Why not?’

‘It…’ I fumble for an excuse. ‘It’s not appropriate, that’s all.’

He stares at me for a long moment, as if he’s trying to figure something out. The weight of those blue eyes on me is too much. I turn away, start fiddling with a light, but it’s worse, somehow. I give in and turn back to face him. ‘Aren’t you worried that people will know it’s you?’

‘No,’ he says, his forehead creasing as if it’s only just occurred to him that this is a possibility. ‘No one is going to recognise me from my dick.’

He said dick . My insides go all sort of squirmy. ‘What about that tattoo?’ I blurt out, pointing in the general direction of his lower stomach. ‘It’s pretty distinctive.’

Tom rubs a hand over the back of his neck. ‘Yeah, I guess there is that.’

I pick up my camera and take it over to the desk where I keep my laptop. I turn it on, then go over to the windows and open the blinds. I’d like to have a big place, the kind with separate rooms and permanent sets, and an office. Who am I kidding? I’d like to be Annie Leibovitz. But at the moment I’ve just got this place, and it’s pretty cool. It used to be a jeweller’s, a seriously high-end classy place, until one day the police raided it. The place was empty for so long after that that the rent is dirt cheap, which is how I can afford it.

The back of my neck starts to prickle, and it occurs to me that he isn’t picking up his briefcase and leaving. Why isn’t he leaving? I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to beat about the bush, either. We’re not strangers but neither are we best buddies. Just because once a month I sit in his office and listen to him tut, and because sometimes when he walks past me in the street, I think about what it would be like to shag his brains out, doesn’t mean that I feel OK being here alone with him.

Because I most definitely do not feelOK. Not scared, more nervous. ‘Do you want something?’ I ask him. I know how rude I sound. I can feel the squeeze of it right in the pit of my stomach.

‘Ah,’ he says, sitting down on the arm of my battered velvet sofa, ‘yeah. Sort of. I guess.’

‘What?’

There’s a slapping sound as he drops his hands onto his knees. ‘Today was unexpected,’ he says. ‘For me, anyway.’

‘Believe me,’ I tell him, ‘it was unexpected for me too.’

‘Seriously? Because Amber told me you do this sort of thing all the time.’

Oh, god. ‘Not all the time. I do plenty of regular photography.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘You did my sister’s wedding.’

I blink. I can’t believe he even noticed I was there, and ‘oh’ is about all I can think of to say.

‘So do you do a lot of…’ He glances up at me. ‘What do you call this?’

‘Erotic photography.’

‘I was going to say porn, but that works.’

‘Hmm,’ I say, not daring to tell him his version is closer to the truth than mine. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone about it, though. It wouldn’t be good for business.’ I shift my weight from one foot to the other, shamefully aware of the deep, unsatisfied ache between my legs.

‘It might be,’ he says. ‘I can think of a few people who’d beg you to take photos of them with their dick out if it meant getting a little action from Amber Jones.’

I blurt out a laugh. ‘It’s her…’ I wave my hands in the general area of my chest.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘There’s no denying they’re impressive.’

I laugh some more, but I feel a strange kind of pain, and the next words I say tumble out of me without me being able to stop them. ‘Why did you look at me?’

He glances down at the floor, rubbing his thighs again. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It’s…distracting. I mean, as if the blue eyes and the mouth weren’t bad enough, he’s got these bloody thick legs. And big hands. And thick forearms. And the mouth. Did I mention the mouth? All of which were fine before, when I thought he was distant and controlled and safe. He’s not safe now.

He shakes his head a little, pulls in a breath. His hands still. Then he looks up at me. ‘Because Amber didn’t make me hard.’

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