Maid for the Billionaire

by Abby Knox

  “At peace?”

  He nods. “Mentally calm. Relaxed. If you had a tidier space.”

  We stare at each other for a second, and I can’t tell if I’m still into him or if he’s now just become my mortal enemy by touching all my shit.

  “I have my own ways of relaxing,” I say in a breathy voice. My heart races thinking about what I’m going to do to relax as soon as he leaves, to help get that body and those thick thighs of his out of my head.

  “I have no doubt about that,” he replies with a mischievous grin.

  “Wait, you didn’t go through my bedroom drawers, did you?” Panic grips me for a brief moment.

  He shakes his head and puts up his hands. “God, no. I’m not a creep. I was talking about your library, with its stacks of books haphazardly thrown everywhere. Your tea cabinet looked like a spider monkey had been in it—there’s no separation of breakfast teas and herbal tea. Your lap blankets and slippers were askew all over the floor and the fireplace looks like it’s been dormant for 100 years. That is chaos, not a recipe for relaxation. Follow me.”

  I don’t bother to point out that it’s southern California; obviously the fireplace isn’t used all that often. Instead I silently follow Luke to the line of custom cabinets. Where boxes used to be stacked on top of each other with no rhyme or reason—not that it bothered me before—now the boxes are sorted with clear delineations, which Luke eagerly explains. “Here are the black, white and green teas. And over here are the herbal remedies.”

  “Where’s my Sleepytime?”

  He points to an entire section of teas with chamomile and lavender.

  I acquiesce grudgingly, my arms again crossing under my breasts. “Thank you. That…does seem easier.”

  My gratitude seems to bolster his upbeat mood even more.

  “I mean, if you want me to organize your lingerie drawer, I can.”

  “Sir!”

  “I apologize,” he says with a hint of a crooked smile he’s trying and failing to contain. “I didn’t see anything; that was just an assumption. I have no reason to assume you don’t take care of your underthings.”

  A laugh escapes me despite myself. How am I not firing him on the spot? “Can we talk about something not related to my underwear?”

  He smiles. “Fine, let’s talk about donating some of your books, then.”

  I don’t hesitate, I just point toward the front door. “Get out!”

  Chapter Five

  Luke

  “Excuse me?”

  “Here,” she says, reaching into her bag and taking out a wad of cash.

  She’s mad. I can’t accept a tip. “That won’t be necessary. I can just go.”

  She shakes her head and counts out the bills while muttering, “Please don’t make me short you just because I’m an emotional mess. I know you must be making only a little over minimum wage. And the house is clean, I’ll give you that.”

  She hands it over. “So, thank you, Luke.”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to go. “I feel like I’ve done the wrong thing, and I’m sorry. But it seems to me you don’t just need a housekeeper, you need a whole house organizer.”

  Her lips twist. In a valiant attempt at sarcasm, she hollers, “Yes, please insult me while I’m tipping you! That’s a surefire way to get a good review online.” Still, it’s clear to me she’s not typically given to acerbic comebacks.

  She appears to be awaiting my snappy comeback, but I don’t deliver. I just don’t do sarcasm, not with anyone, and especially not with her.

  Instead, I press my hand over hers and look into her eyes warmly. “No. I can’t take this. I got carried away. I just…” I take a deep breath. “I really enjoyed trying to help you out. I’m sorry if that turned into a giant overstep of your boundaries. So I’m just going to go and you won’t have to deal with me ever again, even if you decide to continue with Maid for You. OK?”

  Stella’s jaw drops at my response, and she says nothing as I head out the door.

  Chapter Six

  Stella

  I peel off my suit and toss my shoes in the corner where the reed basket used to be. Slipping out of my bra and panties, I start myself a bath and reach for the jasmine bath salts, but the jumble of bath products, lotions, and potions that typically line the ledge of my tub are gone. With a huff, I march to the closet and open it to find all the bath products organized into baskets by scent. All my towels are neatly folded and sorted by size on another shelf.

  Did my mother come by to help? Because this is not only perfect but exactly how she would do things.

  And then I remember. And then I’m sad again. Mom’s gone. Dad too. This is their house, but they’re not here anymore.

  Moments later, I’m emotionally numb as I sink into a jasmine-scented bath, thinking about my parents.

  As my tired muscles relax, my numbness is replaced by loneliness.

  My irritated feelings about Luke moving and rearranging my things is replaced by resignation. Doesn’t matter. He can do what he wants. He may as well burn the place down for all I care. I’m too overwhelmed to do what needs to be done to make this place feel like a real home. I can’t handle it. Because as much as I love all the memories of this house, both of them experienced too much pain at the end of their lives. While Mom was sick, every time I picked up an old magazine to recycle, Dad intervened. He couldn’t part with anything, because everyone had been bought by her. After she was gone, I watched him slowly die of a broken heart and I couldn’t bear the thought of taking any part of her away from him.

  They were both in so much pain. One from tumors, and one from the ensuing broken heart.

  I close my eyes and try to picture the good times. It’s hard. Mom was the glue that held us all together. After she passed, Dad fell apart and turned the house into his own little hermit hole.

  After Mom got sick, I sold my house in Silicon Valley and moved to Los Angeles so I could move in and help. I didn’t care about having my own space; I just wanted to take care of them. My company is my company, so I didn’t have to negotiate with anyone about my decision to permanently set up an office at my LA branch.

  After unwinding in the tub, I feel relaxed, if sad, and decide to forgive Luke for crossing the line. It’s true; this house does need help. I need help.

  I ought to give him a positive review online. A five-star write-up is the least I can do.

  I towel off and pad naked into my bedroom to look for my ratty but comfortable bathrobe that I keep slung over the vanity chair. I end up tromping all over my bedroom, my walk-in closet, and back into the bathroom before I realize the robe is hanging on the back of the bathroom door as, I suppose, would make sense. Pulling it on, I can tell it’s been freshly washed even though it wasn’t dirty before.

  Too much, Luke. But thoughtful.

  As I pull the robe on over my naked, still-damp body, I can’t control the tiny thrill as it rubs against my skin.

  He washed this, dried this, then removed it from the dryer with those big man hands and hung it tenderly and thoughtfully on the back of your bathroom door.

  It’s nice to think of this robe as an extension of him, giving me a big bear hug. I could use a big hug. If he knew the whole story, he might insist on a hug, and I might completely give in to it.

  How long has it been since a man touched me?

  Everything before mom died is kind of a blur. I don’t even want to try to put a number on the exact number of years or months.

  Before I can stop it, the next thought that occurs to me is this: wouldn’t you rather he use those hands to take that robe off your body?

  Not so fast, lady, I say to myself. Have you seen him? He’s probably a major flirt. Probably got a gigabyte’s worth of phone numbers from less complicated and more emotionally available women.

  Muscle memory makes me go to the place where I keep my clean pajamas—in the white laundry basket by the foot of the bed. I sigh when I see they’re not there now.

  I�
��d better give him the review before I go looking for my pajamas, not to mention all the items involved with my nighttime skin care routine, which used to be scattered all over my bathroom countertop but are now lined up neatly in a clear cosmetics display on my vanity.

  Perched in my vanity chair, I pick up my phone, find the bookmark in my browser for the Maid for You website, and type out my review.

  “Luke was a total professional and cleaned my house from top to bottom. He went above and beyond. No corner of my house was left untouched. Please hire Luke; you won’t regret it!”

  Send.

  Curious, I slide open my vanity drawer and see it’s been completely sorted. Mascaras and eyeliner over here, primers and foundation over there.

  Wow. He’s good.

  The smile that creeps across my face cannot be denied. Literally, it can’t because I’m looking at myself in the mirror on my vanity. I haven’t seen myself smile like that in a while.

  What the hell am I smiling about?

  How can I possibly be mad when it takes me three seconds to find everything I need, when on a normal night I’m hunting high and low for all my skin care products? I should thank him for saving me minutes of my time.

  My face in the mirror relaxes while I’m applying my age defying potions. I can’t help but grin at the thought that Luke will make some partner very happy one day. It’s clear from my reflection that I’m not thrilled with the idea of that partner not being me.

  What a ridiculous thought. You’re just lonely.

  You need to call your best friend Laney and sort out your feelings.

  “Siri, call…”

  I stop mid-sentence and remind myself how late it is, and how early she has to get up. She doesn’t have time for my late-night neuroses.

  I let my mind wander while I do my face thing, and gradually, my body and my mind are making other demands.

  Eventually I give in. I abandon what I’m doing, drop my bathrobe off my shoulders onto the floor, and crawl into bed, slipping in between my cozy high thread count sheets.

  My naked body sliding against the sheets, I rub my legs together, the friction of my thighs conjuring up the thought of what it would be like to hold Luke’s massive hard body between them.

  What would that be like? Would he be fast or slow? Would he slide into me missionary-style or set me on his dick as I straddled him upright? Or does he prefer doggy-style? Would he pull my hair? Would I want him to?

  I fought these thoughts all day at work. It wasn’t enough he had to catch me with that gorgeous smile before I’d even had my coffee, but he had to have those kind eyes. That dorky way of holding a pencil behind his ear. That easy way of leaning against my kitchen counter like he damn well belonged there.

  How dare he be so beautiful, so charming, so relaxed.

  Calm down, Stella. That’s one thing you might try to do right now if you plan on getting any sleep.

  Sighing audibly and nearly trembling with the lustful thoughts swirling around my head, I reach for my bedside table drawer. I place my hand on the pull and stop. Wait. Do I think he…opened this drawer? Wait, no, I asked him and he said no. Surely he was telling the truth. I suck in a breath, pull open the drawer, snatch my vibrator and shut the drawer before I even register whether anything in there has been moved.

  If he touched anything in there, I don’t want to know.

  When I fire it up and let the vibrations slowly do their thing, I close my eyes and touch my nipples. Massaging each of them into hard little peaks, I find myself moaning in need. And as the pleasure between my legs and rushing through my body grows, I flat out moan his name, not even trying to stop myself anymore from fantasizing about all the things my body wants from him.

  “Luke!”

  I gasp, fully flushed at the way his name feels on my lips. God, I want to kiss him. Claim him. Wrap my legs around him and squeeze until he begs me for mercy.

  Imagining him exploring my heat with his hands, my fingers dip between my folds and play with my clit. My other hand works the vibrator in circles, increasing the waves of pleasure until my whole body feels like it’s radiating heat.

  When the orgasm barrels through me, a wild noise escapes my throat that no lady has ever allowed herself to make for anybody in her bed. It’s a loud primal grunt, followed by a long moan as my body twitches in a powerful release. As the surges of relief taper off, something between a laugh and a sob escapes me and I say his name again.

  This is dangerous territory, isn’t it? Calling out his name and then whispering it in the afterglow is a sure way to find myself emotionally attached to a person who is most assuredly unavailable.

  My vibrator cast aside, I roll over and fall asleep under the heaviest of blankets, purposely creating for myself the illusion that he’s there with me, cradling me to sleep in a giant hug.

  Oh boy, am I in trouble.

  Chapter Seven

  Luke

  I can’t believe what’s happening right now.

  Let’s review the night’s events, shall we? I arrived home about an hour ago, showered and tried my best to get Stella out of my head. It seemed, though, that I couldn’t. I could still smell her on me. Just from being in her house and touching all her things all day long, she got to me. I laid down on my bed naked and gripped my aching cock. I was going to go slow, but then my phone rang. For a second I thought I was going to have to hit decline, but then I saw it was her. I answered but all I could hear was her breathing. And maybe the phone call was actually a mistake. Maybe I should have shouted out to let her know she’d called me, or hang up to save her embarrassment. But what if she did it on purpose?

  Fast forward to the present moment, and I’m sucked in to what I’m hearing.

  Soon, her breathing changes. Her voice hitches. Fabric rustles… sheets, maybe?

  Holy shit, is she having sex?

  Hang up now.

  But then I hear the thing that makes me not want to hang up.

  My name.

  She’s saying my name.

  Now it could be that she’s simply having sex with another dude named Luke. But I know that’s not true.

  I hear the buzzing.

  Shit. She’s playing with herself and saying my name.

  Is…is that how she ended up calling me?

  How is that possible?

  I should hang up now. This is too much.

  But instead of hanging up, I play along.

  I rub myself up and down. I have to. I’m too hard and achy and my cock responds like a trained animal to the sound of her voice…to the thought that she’s thinking of me while she’s playing.

  Oh my god.

  I pump and I pump until my eyes roll back in my head and the tightness signals in my lower back that I’m about to nut. I let go as I hear her yell, grunt. Shit, she makes noises like a cavewoman, and I cannot get enough of it.

  She’s unbelievable.

  I bite my lip and voice my release into my pillow, and then hang up the phone before she realizes what happened.

  Chapter Eight

  Stella

  Five minutes.

  That’s how long of a phone call I apparently made to Luke last night.

  I don’t remember doing that. It must have been a butt dial.

  Then I do the math in my head. I called him…right in the middle of…vibe time?!

  Did I accidentally call him when I moaned his name? Is that what happened?

  Shit.

  A full body, white hot panic hits me like one of those massive dust storms you see in the desert.

  Oh no. What do I do?

  First, I spring into action and deactivate all the devices in the house. That is it. I’m never using voice commands for anything ever again. My mind races as my feet scamper around the house and my lips whisper prayers to whatever gods and goddesses may or may not exist that Luke didn’t hear me—oh god!—coming.

  And then, the doorbell rings.

  I peek through the guest bathroom win
dow that looks down onto the front door. Oh god.

  Tightening my robe and smoothing my hair, I go to the door, simply deciding to pretend nothing happened.

  I beam at him. “Luke! Did you forget something?”

  “Stella.”

  There’s that soft voice again. Low and soft and making my lips feel parched, and my other lips quiver.

  Best to play dumb.

  “Can I help you with something? I’ve got to go to work.”

  His body weight subtly shifting back and forth there on my front porch tells me he’s torn. Just like me. I’m torn between wanting him to go away as quickly as possible so we can both pretend the accidental phone call never happened, and inviting him in to allow me to jump his bones with wild abandon.

  “I, uh…about last night,” he starts.

  “Mhmm?” I ask with an air of exaggerated cluelessness that I hope he’s buying into.

  “I was hoping you’d give me a chance.”

  Swallowing down the anxiety and willing myself not to blush, I say, “What do you mean?”

  He answers, “I mean another chance. To help you organize your house. I saw the review you posted and I feel weird about the way we left things. And I really want to help you.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, then I bow my head and step aside to let him in. “Help yourself to a yogurt from the fridge if you haven’t eaten breakfast yet. There’s also instant coffee around here somewhere.”

  He declines the food, mentioning that he does intermittent fasting and usually skips breakfast. “But I know you’ve got a moka pot in here; no way I’m letting you drink instant coffee on my watch when I can use one of those to make you the real thing..”

  I nod, remembering that, of course, he already knows his way around my kitchen appliances. “It was my mom’s moka pot. I don’t know how to use it. But, you’re welcome to it.”