The Walk-In Read online

  Borrowed Billionaire #1, The Walk-In

  © 2012 Mimi Strong

  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.

  Part 1: The Dress Shirt

  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 wardrob
e 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?

  My Bitch Boots were too noisy on the hardwood floor. They'd be a dead giveaway if he was nearby, so I zipped them off and ran barefoot to one of the other doors, listening for the man's voice. He wasn't behind door number two, but he wasn't far away, behind door number three. On the other side of the wall.

  I put my ear to the door and breathed deeply as he hummed the wordless melody of a familiar song.

  One of my hands moved down to the hem of my skirt and stroked the inside of my thigh. I shivered. That touch felt good, the cool hand on my thigh. Not as good as a man's hand, but nice.

  He kept singing, louder now, with that deep voice. Was it opera? There were words, but they sounded Italian, not English.

  Both hands darted between my legs, rubbing and pinching the sensitive skin. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him. If he was the man all these suits belonged to, that meant he was tall, with broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. Maybe a swimmer's physique, I thought as one hand slipped inside my red panties.

  He stopped singing, and for a moment, I felt self-conscious, like someone could see me. There were three doors, but they were all closed, and Grace had locked them all, hadn't she?

  I yanked my hand out from my panties and carefully checked the lock on the nearest door, and then the other two. All the doors were locked, which meant I could do whatever I wanted, which was definitely not organizing the socks. Not yet. The socks could wait.

  My need had started up the night before, dancing at the club between two attractive men, roommates or friends or something. I had to choose which one to go home with, and I'd chosen poorly. He'd been fast asleep before I'd even gotten warmed up.

  The morning after, mildly dehydrated and extremely frustrated, I was suffering, but not for long.

  I pulled off my gray jacket and hung it on a wooden hanger, then slipped out of my skirt.

  There was a wood chair in the middle of the room, and I soundlessly brought it over to the door where I'd heard Mr. Thorne's voice, and I took a seat, my legs parted wide. The singing began again. I leaned my head against the door and ran my hands over my breasts, still in the red bra, and then up and down my legs. The desire blossomed out from my belly once more, with a ferocity.

  I slipped a hand into my panties and began to rub at the engorged folds, fattening by the second, my slick finger moving easily back and forth, up and down, round and round.

  “Hello?” he said from the other side of the door.

  I clapped my free hand over my mouth. Now I'd done it. I'd moaned out loud, hadn't I? Lexie, you filthy slut, you were hired to organize this closet, not give it a one-woman sound show!

  “Huh,” he said to himself, then he went back to singing.

  Oh, that voice!

  The laundry bin wasn't far from where I sat, so I took a short break from my ministrations—it's always better if you let the fire build up a little—and pulled out a rumpled shirt. It was pale blue. I wondered if it went with his eyes. Was he putting on the lightweight green sweater I'd picked out for him?

  I took off my red bra, let it drop to the floor, and pulled on his shirt. The stiff cotton grazed my hard nipples, and I bit into my knuckles to stifle a moan of pleasure.

  The singing stopped again. He knows I'm in here, I thought. He's like a wolf, and he can smell me through the door.

  I sat down on the chair again and let the cuffs of the too-large shirt fall down over my wrists. I twisted and squirmed to pull off my panties, then I propped one foot up on the edge of the chair and really let myself have it with both hands, dragging the cuffs of the shirt over my moist folds. I didn't care that I was leaving my sweet juices all over the garment—it would be off to the laundry, and nobody would be the wiser.

  The smell on the collar was manly, musky. I drank it in as I rubbed myself, back and forth, up and down.

  He was there, so close, on the other side of the door. I imagined it so clearly, that I swear I could hear him breathing. I moaned quietly, the sound of myself sending a shiver up and down my core. There was no return sound from 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.”