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Authors: Mimi Strong
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the other side of the door.
Still, I imagined him there, stroking a long, thick, velvety member. Surely he was there, and could feel the heat of my desire, coming through the door. Surely he wondered why Grace had set out his clothes for him, and why the door to his walk-in closet was locked.
All he had to do was push a key into the lock, shove it in and turn it, and I'd fall through the doorway at him.
The smell on the collar.
Musk.
Cotton.
Slick finger, over, under, round and round.
When I came, my orgasm bearing down like a train, I nearly fell off my chair. I realized I'd been arching my back and leaning back so far, my throat exposed. I clenched my legs together, gripping my hands so they didn't dare move away.
From the other side of the door, I heard the man's grunt, and then a moan.
As my body cooled down and I pulsed my thumb for one last shudder, I swear I heard a moan again. You're hungover , I told myself, and you have an absolutely filthy imagination.
I didn't hear anything else after that.
I took off the shirt and held it against my nose, deeply inhaling the scent of cologne and that distinctive smell of a man's body. I almost came a second time, just from the smell of him, the idea of him. My sweet juices were on my hand and on the cuffs, and his smell and mine together were the most intoxicating thing I'd ever encountered.
I tossed the shirt back into the laundry and got dressed.
Over the next few hours, until Grace came to check on me, I tried to keep my mind only on my work, but every half hour or so, I'd run back to the laundry basket and smell that shirt again. I buried it deep, under the other shirts and boxers, but I knew it was there.
Grace came to check on me just as I was sliding the last crisp wool suit jacket into place.
She glanced over at my Bitch Boots, limp on the ground, and looked me up and down. “You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet.”
“Beg pardon?”
“It's an equestrian expression. I gather you don't ride?”
“Not horses.” I pulled my boots on and zipped them up.
Grace chuckled, then looked around at my handiwork. “Lexie, this really is a top-notch job. You'll be able to handle Mr. Thorne's office tomorrow? Are you just as good with files as you are with clothes?”
“For something as intimate as an office, I'd need to work with the client.” I thought about the deep-voiced singing I'd heard on the other side of the door. And the groan. “I'd need to work directly with Mr. Thorne. One on one.”
Grace shook her head. “Mr. Thorne cannot see you. Absolutely not. I'll try to keep him out of the house, so we don't have to play around with locked doors, but the arrangement still stands.”
I didn't question her, just nodded my head. Rich people were weird. It was best to act like whatever weird thing they wanted was the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Same time?” I asked.
“Earlier, say nine. And come to the side door,” she said. “And you might want to bring a lunch. The cook has the day off, and you're looking a little pale. I wouldn't want this little job to take too much of a pounding on you.”
“No, that would be terrible,” I said.
She held the door open and I walked out past her. She took a deep sniff as I walked by.
She showed me out through the side door, which was a shame, because I would have liked to have seen the look on Grace's face when I passed over the shining tile floor and she noticed I didn't have any panties on. They were in my purse. Again.
You need to get your act together , I told myself.
Then I thought about the roll of cash, and I no longer had a care in the world.
On the drive home, I found myself singing that song he'd been singing. I didn't know the words, but the memory was stuck in my head.
When I got home, I had a quick bite to eat, then propped myself up in bed with my laptop.
Mr. Thorne couldn't see me, but I could see him—or his photo, at the very least.
I tried every search I
Still, I imagined him there, stroking a long, thick, velvety member. Surely he was there, and could feel the heat of my desire, coming through the door. Surely he wondered why Grace had set out his clothes for him, and why the door to his walk-in closet was locked.
All he had to do was push a key into the lock, shove it in and turn it, and I'd fall through the doorway at him.
The smell on the collar.
Musk.
Cotton.
Slick finger, over, under, round and round.
When I came, my orgasm bearing down like a train, I nearly fell off my chair. I realized I'd been arching my back and leaning back so far, my throat exposed. I clenched my legs together, gripping my hands so they didn't dare move away.
From the other side of the door, I heard the man's grunt, and then a moan.
As my body cooled down and I pulsed my thumb for one last shudder, I swear I heard a moan again. You're hungover , I told myself, and you have an absolutely filthy imagination.
I didn't hear anything else after that.
I took off the shirt and held it against my nose, deeply inhaling the scent of cologne and that distinctive smell of a man's body. I almost came a second time, just from the smell of him, the idea of him. My sweet juices were on my hand and on the cuffs, and his smell and mine together were the most intoxicating thing I'd ever encountered.
I tossed the shirt back into the laundry and got dressed.
Over the next few hours, until Grace came to check on me, I tried to keep my mind only on my work, but every half hour or so, I'd run back to the laundry basket and smell that shirt again. I buried it deep, under the other shirts and boxers, but I knew it was there.
Grace came to check on me just as I was sliding the last crisp wool suit jacket into place.
She glanced over at my Bitch Boots, limp on the ground, and looked me up and down. “You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet.”
“Beg pardon?”
“It's an equestrian expression. I gather you don't ride?”
“Not horses.” I pulled my boots on and zipped them up.
Grace chuckled, then looked around at my handiwork. “Lexie, this really is a top-notch job. You'll be able to handle Mr. Thorne's office tomorrow? Are you just as good with files as you are with clothes?”
“For something as intimate as an office, I'd need to work with the client.” I thought about the deep-voiced singing I'd heard on the other side of the door. And the groan. “I'd need to work directly with Mr. Thorne. One on one.”
Grace shook her head. “Mr. Thorne cannot see you. Absolutely not. I'll try to keep him out of the house, so we don't have to play around with locked doors, but the arrangement still stands.”
I didn't question her, just nodded my head. Rich people were weird. It was best to act like whatever weird thing they wanted was the most reasonable thing in the world.
“Same time?” I asked.
“Earlier, say nine. And come to the side door,” she said. “And you might want to bring a lunch. The cook has the day off, and you're looking a little pale. I wouldn't want this little job to take too much of a pounding on you.”
“No, that would be terrible,” I said.
She held the door open and I walked out past her. She took a deep sniff as I walked by.
She showed me out through the side door, which was a shame, because I would have liked to have seen the look on Grace's face when I passed over the shining tile floor and she noticed I didn't have any panties on. They were in my purse. Again.
You need to get your act together , I told myself.
Then I thought about the roll of cash, and I no longer had a care in the world.
On the drive home, I found myself singing that song he'd been singing. I didn't know the words, but the memory was stuck in my head.
When I got home, I had a quick bite to eat, then propped myself up in bed with my laptop.
Mr. Thorne couldn't see me, but I could see him—or his photo, at the very least.
I tried every search I
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