all day, but I knew the minute I saw one of those shirts, I’d be dreaming about pulling one on over my naked body and then riding something, maybe a leather ottoman. Better yet, some hot, muscled thing, like a gardener or a pool boy. I’d unbutton the shirt, grab onto the sides of one of those button-upholstered leather ottomans rich people always have in their walk-in closets, and I’d make that pool boy blush and squeal.
“Lexie Ross!” I admonished myself. “Enough of your filth. Get your mind on the job.”
Mmm, pool boy. Blow job?
“The organizing!” I reminded myself. “Gotta get paid.”
I arrived at the address Suzanne had given me and pulled the car under the shade of an enormous oak tree.
The address. It was the one . The mansion. The home of my dreams. Thick columns at the front, a wrought iron gate, and timeless architecture. The landscaping was impeccable, almost drawing attention from the house.
After I turned off the engine, I smoothed down my gray suit, sliding my hand in under the jacket to give each of my breasts a little I’ll-Get-To-You-Later squeeze.
The woman who answered the door shut it immediately when she saw my face.
I pressed the buzzer again and spoke confidently into the intercom, “My name is Lexie Ross. I’m from Busy Town Organization, and I do have an appointment.”
“How old are you?” she asked through the intercom. I imagined her wrinkled lips flattening into a line at the end of the question.
“Twenty-eight,” I said, adding on two years.
“We requested someone with more experience.”
I rolled my eyes—a bad habit I was trying to break. “I’ve been organizing for seven years,” I said, doubling my time and adding a year for good measure. So what, everybody exaggerates on their resume, I figured.
She opened the door, revealing an elegant face with minimal, tasteful makeup. “I’m not allowing any young women near Mr. Thorne,” she said.
“Does he eat them?” I joked.
She scowled. I thought her scowl couldn’t get any deeper, and then she saw my Bitch Boots, and it did.
I extended my hand and said, warmly, “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. … ?”
She looked both ways and waved me into the house—or should I say, mansion.
“Call me Grace,” she said, and she shook my hand. “Next time, you’ll come in through the side, to the servants’ entrance.”
“Of course,” I said, looking up first at the enormous chandelier and then down at the gleaming marble tile floor. The tiles were so shiny, and reflective. I could see the chandelier beneath me. I caught a glimpse of my red silk panties in the reflection and quickly shifted my feet together before Grace could see them.
She glanced up and gave me a smirk. Oh, she saw.
Grace, who looked about fifty, but a feisty fifty, licked her lips.
“Come,” she said, wiggling a finger.
I’d love to, but you’re not my type , I thought, smiling sweetly.
“Of course,” I said, and I followed her up a grand wooden staircase.
She took me down a hall, around a corner, and then led me into a closet, and by closet, I mean an entire room, bigger than my two-bedroom condominium and then some. As she explained the job, I wandered around the walk-in closet. Trying to stay focused on her words, I stroked one smooth cotton shirtsleeve after another, that familiar sexy feeling flowering in my silk panties. If only Grace would stop talking about the seasonal shift and the wardrobe transition and leave me alone with the clothes! There was some talk about a moth infestation that had gotten into the wool drawers, but had been taken care of. Unfortunately, the moth people had completely boned up—my words, not Grace’s—the organization.
“He’s in the shower now,” Grace said.
The faint smell of cologne that lingered in the room, emanating from the clothes, was relaxing me, loosening my tongue. I giggled, unprofessionally. “Who’s in the shower? The moth man?”
The scowl returned. “Mr.
“Lexie Ross!” I admonished myself. “Enough of your filth. Get your mind on the job.”
Mmm, pool boy. Blow job?
“The organizing!” I reminded myself. “Gotta get paid.”
I arrived at the address Suzanne had given me and pulled the car under the shade of an enormous oak tree.
The address. It was the one . The mansion. The home of my dreams. Thick columns at the front, a wrought iron gate, and timeless architecture. The landscaping was impeccable, almost drawing attention from the house.
After I turned off the engine, I smoothed down my gray suit, sliding my hand in under the jacket to give each of my breasts a little I’ll-Get-To-You-Later squeeze.
The woman who answered the door shut it immediately when she saw my face.
I pressed the buzzer again and spoke confidently into the intercom, “My name is Lexie Ross. I’m from Busy Town Organization, and I do have an appointment.”
“How old are you?” she asked through the intercom. I imagined her wrinkled lips flattening into a line at the end of the question.
“Twenty-eight,” I said, adding on two years.
“We requested someone with more experience.”
I rolled my eyes—a bad habit I was trying to break. “I’ve been organizing for seven years,” I said, doubling my time and adding a year for good measure. So what, everybody exaggerates on their resume, I figured.
She opened the door, revealing an elegant face with minimal, tasteful makeup. “I’m not allowing any young women near Mr. Thorne,” she said.
“Does he eat them?” I joked.
She scowled. I thought her scowl couldn’t get any deeper, and then she saw my Bitch Boots, and it did.
I extended my hand and said, warmly, “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. … ?”
She looked both ways and waved me into the house—or should I say, mansion.
“Call me Grace,” she said, and she shook my hand. “Next time, you’ll come in through the side, to the servants’ entrance.”
“Of course,” I said, looking up first at the enormous chandelier and then down at the gleaming marble tile floor. The tiles were so shiny, and reflective. I could see the chandelier beneath me. I caught a glimpse of my red silk panties in the reflection and quickly shifted my feet together before Grace could see them.
She glanced up and gave me a smirk. Oh, she saw.
Grace, who looked about fifty, but a feisty fifty, licked her lips.
“Come,” she said, wiggling a finger.
I’d love to, but you’re not my type , I thought, smiling sweetly.
“Of course,” I said, and I followed her up a grand wooden staircase.
She took me down a hall, around a corner, and then led me into a closet, and by closet, I mean an entire room, bigger than my two-bedroom condominium and then some. As she explained the job, I wandered around the walk-in closet. Trying to stay focused on her words, I stroked one smooth cotton shirtsleeve after another, that familiar sexy feeling flowering in my silk panties. If only Grace would stop talking about the seasonal shift and the wardrobe transition and leave me alone with the clothes! There was some talk about a moth infestation that had gotten into the wool drawers, but had been taken care of. Unfortunately, the moth people had completely boned up—my words, not Grace’s—the organization.
“He’s in the shower now,” Grace said.
The faint smell of cologne that lingered in the room, emanating from the clothes, was relaxing me, loosening my tongue. I giggled, unprofessionally. “Who’s in the shower? The moth man?”
The scowl returned. “Mr.
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