The Walk-In

Description:
Lexie, a professional organizer, is called to a job at the home of billionaire Luthor Thorne. She is told she cannot be seen by him! Unfortunately for Lexie, even his beautiful clothes turn her on, and she isn’t able to resist temptation.
Length:
12,000 words, or 48 book pages long. This is the first of a 5-part series.
Spice Level:
Erotic. This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

How are you supposed to meet people these days if you aren’t a computer nerd? I’ve tried nightclubs, but you can’t hear what a cute guy’s saying over the music, and two or three drinks doesn’t exactly help your judgment. If you do hook up with someone attractive, you have to do the morning-after walk of shame, with your panties in your purse, and the worst part is, that deep craving has turned into an unfulfilled ache, because the drunk guy who seemed hot enough at the bar turns out to live in his mother’s basement and thinks foreplay is something you do on the golf course.

I’d just returned from such a shameful walk when I got the call. I tossed my keys into the bowl by the door and sat on my vintage chair while I jotted down the details. Some rich jerk was having an organizational crisis, and it was time for me to have a shower, put on my Bitch Boots, and go color-sort a wardrobe full of designer ties and sixty-dollar socks.

Such is the life of a professional organizer who caters to the needs of the mega-rich. Oh, I used to cater to the needs of the just-rich-enough, but then I discovered the Bitch Boots, and they promised me the power to break into the mega-rich market. Or so I believed. In any case, I’d started dressing better, and the jobs had gotten better, and I wasn’t complaining about either. You gotta love a quality fabric.

Over the phone, I told Suzanne I’d drive to the client’s in an hour. I checked my breath on my hand. “Make that an hour and a half,” I said. “I need to hydrate.”

“Not acceptable!” she yelled into the phone from her side. “We’re on the cusp, here, Lexie. Be there by eleven or I’ll send another girl.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll send Trisha,” she said, but her voice had that quiver that said she was bluffing.

“Trisha’s in Boston, visiting her mother. I’ll be there by eleven-thirty.”

Her voice steely, she said, “Eleven-fifteen.”

“Suzanne, have I ever told you what an excellent pimp you’d make?”

I went on to elaborate about pimp-style wardrobe choices and pimping out her little Honda, but she’d already ended the call.

The address I’d jotted down looked familiar. Was it that mansion I’d drive by and gaze at when I was feeling like a have-not and wanted to make myself feel even worse? No, it couldn’t be. Whoever lived in that place would have full-time staff and wouldn’t mess around with contractors like me.

I looked down at the cell phone in my hand, which I was absent-mindedly rubbing across the ache between my thighs, the edge of the phone digging a little deeper by the second. If only I’d gotten off last night or this morning, my mind wouldn’t be such a mess.

A quickie in the shower would take care of my problems, at least for the day.

Unfortunately for me and my aching nub, the phone rang again—the one on the wall, connected to the intercom. Mrs. O’Hara was at the front door and needed help with her groceries. I cursed my inner Good Samaritan and took the elevator down to help her. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say, so Mrs. O’Hara treated me to a libido-crushing anecdote about having a cyst lanced. I got her and her groceries loaded into her condo and refused her offerings of lemonade.

Back in my place with no time to spare, I barely had time to splash some water on my face, pull on my I-Mean-Business gray suit (the most expensive thing I owned, that I was still paying off) and my Bitch Boots, and dashed down to my car.

On the drive over, I wondered what kind of job was ahead of me. Suzanne hadn’t told me how much work there was, or how many days I’d be on the case, but I didn’t care.

The address was in the rich part of the city, and, while I love organizing almost anything, there’s a very special joy I get from handling designer suits and ties and those custom-made shirts. Oh, those shirts!

My loins were still aching, unsatisfied. I had to organize things 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. Thorne.”

“Oh. I look forward to meeting him.”

She crossed her arms. “You won’t see him. You’re going to lock this door from the inside. I’ve laid out his clothes on his bed, so he has no reason to come in here. Do not make a peep, and do not let him know you’re in here.” She gave me a meaningful look. What exactly she meant, I had no idea, but surely it was meaningful. And serious. “Do you understand?”

“Don’t come out of the closet,” I said, nodding. “Got it.”

“Not even if there’s a fire,” she said.

“We may have to charge extra if there’s a fire,” I joked.

She pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “If you can get this entire closet organized today, and then two more jobs done over the next two days, there’s a bonus in it for you. Cash, no report to your employer. But on one condition. You must complete the job without being seen, heard, or smelled, by Mr. Thorne.”

“Smelled?”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “He has keen senses.”

I bit my lower lip. That was a lot of money. Professional organizing paid well, when you could get the work. Truth was, I stuck to vintage furniture in my condo because it looked great and I knew a few places I could get great deals. I wasn’t exactly flush with cash, especially not after investing in so much wardrobe. The month and the money usually ran out at the same time. With that much cash, I could have a safety net. I could even set up my own business and quit being pimped out by Suzanne, as much fun as she was.

“I aim to satisfy,” I said.

Her eyes twinkled. “I bet you do. Let’s be sure none of it happens with Mr. Thorne. Only with his wardrobe.”

A door opened and closed nearby. Grace cocked her head.

I whispered, “Is that him?”

A man’s voice floated out like a bass string on a cello. He said, “Grace, I don’t think it’s turtleneck weather.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, then grabbed a summer sweater from nearby. I whispered, “Silly Grace, it’s not turtleneck weather for another month.”

She snatched the green sweater from my hands and backed away. “Not a peep, remember?” She deftly twisted the handle of the door to lock it from the inside and pulled it shut.

Alone in the room, I had a good look around. The clothes were not unusual—the typical well-made but low-key wardrobes you see on business leaders and movie stars. By comparison, my gray tweed suit, which wasn’t cheap, looked like a dust rag.

Where was Mr. Thorne? I’d lost all sense of direction after being led through the long hallway, and the room had no windows for reference.

Mr. Thorne. What a hot name. I didn’t see any clothes that might belong to a Mrs. Thorne.

The room had three doors, and he had to be on the other side of one of them, getting dressed, fresh from a hot shower.

I listened at the door Grace had left through, but heard nothing.

I started working, mentally mapping out where I’d put the ties and socks, when my thoughts were interrupted by the low murmur of a man, singing. Singing?