Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (11 page)

My second-most unusual job was for a guy who videotaped everything. We came up with an organization system for his physical copies of recordings, and a digital backup as well. That may not sound too strange, but he videotaped the two of us working the entire two days. I imagined some future organizer filing away the recordings of me, filing away the recordings of the previous organizer.

Make a bedroom less sexy? That was definitely my
most
unusual job. Number one on the list.

Why did Grace hire me to do such a thing?

The gardener had said Mr. Thorne had no wife or girlfriend, so it wasn't at the request of a lover.

As I rearranged the reading chairs, two-seater sofa, and bed to be less cozy, I concocted a theory. Mr. Thorne was a business man, and single. On the phone the day before, he'd said he had just closed a billion-dollar deal. Therefore, he probably had a lot of business things on his mind, and didn't want any distractions in his life.

That must have been why he called a phone sex line, and seemed to be a regular. I could understand that. Why take a risk on dating someone and trying to seduce them, only to find out after all that time that you're not compatible? Something quick and simple like a phone sex line made sense.

I rolled up a red area rug and shoved it in a linen closet, then pushed the bed so that two sides were against the walls, which was a no-brainer. Immediately, the room was less sexy.

In
feng shui
, both sides of the bed should be easily accessible. You have to pity people in tiny apartments, who don't have the option. Even with mirrors in the right spots, candles, and live, soft plants, their sex lives will suffer. One person always feels trapped by the other, and not in the good way.

A little trapping and constriction can feel good
, I thought as I held my wrists together behind my back and leaned over a round table I'd moved far away from the window.

I wiggled my butt and imagined one of those big, thick-fingered hands I'd seen on Mr. Thorne, smacking my bottom.

The thought gave me a tingle. The more I thought about the tickling, tingling sensation around my openings, the greater the sensation got. I arched my back, pushing my butt higher into the air. The tingling moved down, circling around my folds and nub, pulsating now with every heartbeat.

Again?

I'd just gotten off the day before. When I was a teen, I was a once-or-twice-a-day kinda gal, but until recently, I'd been working up an orgasm maybe every two days, going the occasional dry spell for a week.

The room could wait, I decided. And besides, I was nearly finished.

I dragged myself off table and draped my body across the two-seater sofa. My skirt slid up easily, and I threw one leg over the back of the sofa.

I gazed up at the ceiling, at the mirror. I'd moved the bed away from the mirror, yes, but now the sofa was directly underneath the reflective surface, and there was the girl, red-cheeked with sexual excitement and staring down at me.

I ran one finger down the front of my body, giving myself a shiver that I not only felt, but saw, in the mirror. No wonder men were so obsessed with mirrors and visuals! For a moment, I understood their perspective just a bit better.

My blouse practically unbuttoned itself, and I took a good look at my breasts, cupped in the bright pink bra.

Had I locked the door?

Oh, who cares
, I thought, running my hands over my pink panties. I could have slipped them off, revealing even more pink to the mirror above me, but I felt strangely shy, so I kept them on and stuck my hand inside, which felt naughtier anyway.

No sooner had I got my fingers where they wanted to go, as I realized I was being watched. Someone was at one of the windows.

He didn't know I saw him, because he didn't move away, but I closed my eyelids nearly all the way and turned my head slowly to get a better look.

It was the man in the hat, the sexy gardener who'd let me in. He must have been up on a ladder, perhaps using the excuse of cleaning leaves, or washing windows.

Let him watch
, I thought, and the naughtiness of it all gave me a shiver that nearly sent me over the edge way sooner than I wanted.

So he stayed there, watching, and I arched my back and writhed around on the sofa, giving him the show of his life. He didn't move. Why wasn't he doing anything? He should have come to his senses and climbed back down, or something.

I rubbed harder with my fingers, but the area was going numb, because my mind was distracted.

I was annoyed. Who did he think he was? Standing out there on his ladder, getting a free show, and worst of all, not helping me in any way.

Nothing was happening in my downstairs zone, so I stopped and rolled onto my side with a sigh. Tomorrow was another day, and, besides, I still had work to do in the room, including moving a few of the paintings.

I stared at the garden painting, wondering what it might be worth.

Someone tapped on the window. Gently at first, then with more conviction.

The gardener. I'd almost forgotten about him. He waved when I looked over at him.

I stood, pulled my skirt down, and walked over to the window, my blouse still open.

The darn window had a complicated latch, and the gardener was pointing at the latch and laughing at me when I got the thing open.

“Thanks for nothing,” I said to him. “Don't you know spying on someone like this is a crime?”

He looked down at his feet, on the ladder. “You going to sue me?”

“No, but I should have you fired.” I should have been angry at him, but he had such a nice face, and those hungry eyes.

“Please don't have me fired,” he said, a glint in his eye. “I'll do anything to make it up to you. Anything.”

My pink zones lit up like Christmas tree ornaments. “Anything?”

“Anything,” he said.

“Go trim some hedges,” I said angrily, closing the window. “And stop peeping.”

With the window shut, we stared at each other through the glass.

As he was watching, I ran both hands over my breasts and torso. I was still wearing my unbuttoned blouse, and I let it drop to the floor, so he could see my pink bra and more of my skin.

He nodded at me to continue.

The sun behind him was bright, and his face was in shadows, but I could still sense the fire in his eyes.

I reached behind me and unlatched my lacy pink bra, letting it fall to the floor with my blouse. I had already slipped off my shoes earlier, when I was moving the furniture, and now the expensive creamy sisal carpet felt sensual under my bare soles.

My nipples stood at attention, the bright pink raspberries pointing right at the gardener, reaching out for him.

In response, he shifted one hand slowly to arrange his package, beneath his jeans. Funny, his jeans looked like a designer pair, not the grubby type you'd expect to see on a gardener.

I'd had an idea about who he was, but it wasn't until I walked up to the window and pressed my body against the glass that my conscious mind became aware of what my subconscious, animal mind already knew.

I pointed and gestured for him to show me what was in his jeans, and he did. One thick-fingered hand unbuttoned and released his manhood. I knew that cock. I'd know it anywhere. It was the same one I'd hungered after the day before, while I was hiding under the desk, breathing my hot breath in its direction as I'd desperately rubbed myself into my palm.

He pressed it against the glass, and then pulled back again, looking sheepish.

“What?” I said.

He mouthed the words and I heard him, albeit faintly, through the pane that separated us, “That glass is hot,” he said, grinning.

I licked my lips. “Want me to kiss it better?”

He made a pouty face and nodded.

I unlatched the window again.

“May I come in?” he said. A good portion of him was already inside the room, pointing at my upper body.

I grabbed him by his sturdy handle without even thinking about it, tugging at him tenderly. “Let me help you.”

He groaned and closed his eyes, gripping the edge of the window frame with both hands. “That feels good.”

I used my other hand to give his base and balls some feathery strokes as I tugged gently with the other hand. “I'll kiss it better if you wanna come inside.”

He gripped the window frame tighter. “I shouldn't. I shouldn't enter the house. I'm not
allowed
.”

“Really?” Were we still playing this little game, pretending that he was the gardener? I looked at his face, at his half-closed eyes and the pained, hungry expression on his mouth. “You're the
gardener
,” I said, stressing the word
gardener
. “You're
dirty
, so maybe you should stay out there, on your ladder. If you come inside, you'll probably make a big mess all over Mr. Thorne's nice carpet.”

At the mention of
Mr. Thorne
, his equipment throbbed in my hand.

“I promise I'll be good,” he said.

“Maybe you should stay out there,” I said. “Where you belong. Not in here, on Mr. Thorne's nice Egyptian Cotton sheets.” He thrust his hips at me, his member pulsing back and forth in my hand, slick with the sweat from my excited palms. I paused for a moment and licked my hand, then returned it.

His hands were still gripping the window frame, his knuckles turning white. “This is dangerous,” he said.

“I'll say.” I paused my handwork and removed my skirt. I took two steps back and buried one hand inside my pink panties, the other one near my mouth, so I could suck my thumb. “Too bad you can't come into Mr. Thorne's nice bedroom.”

He removed his hat and threw it far, into the room.

“Oops, I dropped my hat.”

I slipped out of my panties and tossed them on the pristine bed.

“You'll have to come in and get it,” I said.

He fixed me with his fiery gaze. “You won't tattle on me? You won't tell… Grace?”

“I can keep a secret,” I said. “Can you?”

He pulled back from the window for a moment, and I feared he'd changed his mind, but he was just securing the ladder. He stepped into the room, and then, there he was.

We were in the same room together, and I was completely, utterly naked.

Nobody but Grace and Suzanne even knew I was there.

The man was taller than I'd thought. Even though I'd seen his clothes—assuming the man before me was indeed Mr. Thorne—he was so much bigger-than-life in person. I guessed that was what it took to be a billionaire. Or maybe the billions were what made you so big, so present.

Half of my mind believed he was the gardener, though. And I wanted him. Gardener or billionaire, I wanted him to take me for his own.

He crossed the room slowly and retrieved the hat.

I walked toward him, then changed direction, moving over to the bed.

He glanced up at the ceiling, at the mirror, and pointed to the sofa, which was now positioned under the mirror.

I moved over to the sofa and leaned back, presenting him with my pussy.

Remembering what he'd said on the phone sex line the day before, I said, “I'm spreading my legs for you. I'm begging you for your tip. Please, can I have it? I need it.”

He raised his eyebrows and coughed in surprise.

Honestly, I was probably more surprised than he was. I'd had boyfriends try to get me to talk dirty to them, but I always got embarrassed. It seemed silly with those boys. But there, under that mirror, the words just flowed from my mouth. My folds were slick with desire for him, and when I went on, whimpering with begging sounds, I meant it. I completely, utterly meant every whimper.

The furniture I lay back on was a bit short for such purposes, but I didn't care about comfort. I just wanted him inside me, pumping me. I would have taken his manhood in the back seat of a Volkswagen Beetle. I would have taken it in a phone booth. After the build-up over the previous two days, first hearing him from inside the closet, and then seeing him but being unable to touch him, in his office, I desperately needed satisfaction. And I needed it from him.

He pulled off his thin T-shirt, revealing a body way more toned than you'd expect on a business man. He must have taken conference calls on the treadmill, I figured. Or maybe he had a personal trainer.
I hope it's not a woman
, I thought jealously.

He dropped the pants, kicked off his shoes, and removed his socks.

He didn't climb on top of me on the sofa, like I was aching for him to, but he walked over and sat on his knees on the plush carpet next to me, leaning in for a kiss.

Of course! We were both completely naked, ready to be intimate, and yet, we hadn't even kissed yet.

I reached out for him with my arms and pulled him to me as we kissed, deeply. His lips sucked at my lips, and his tongue caressed me without intruding. I imagined that strong tongue on other parts and shuddered in anticipation.

My clit was on fire with ecstasy, sparks shooting out everywhere from my mound, and I realized it was because his hand was there, stroking me. Softly, gently, and then with more urgency, thick fingers exploring and plunging in and out of me. Circling, maddeningly.

I cried out in pleasure, into his mouth, with his lips still encompassing mine.

His hand kept moving over my mound, back and forth through my soft, pink folds. I pulled my head back, interrupting his kiss, and also pushed his hand away from my crotch.

“Careful,” I said, breathlessly. “I'm about to go off, and I want you inside me when I do.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Because once I start, I don't stop.”

I didn't know what he meant by that, but I nodded my head and whimpered.

He glanced up at the mirror, then he forcefully shoved the small sofa, with me on it, three feet back.

He stretched out on the carpet, on his back, and stared up at the mirror, then over at me.

“Climb on board,” he said.

I looked at the bed in the corner.

“I'll give you rug burn,” I said, but even as I protested, I was making my way over to him.

I straddled his chest and gave him another kiss, mouth to mouth, as my other moist parts kissed his chest and his abs, moving down as I lowered my hips toward his.