The Walk-In
Page 4
“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.
He thrust his tongue deep into my mouth just as he grabbed my buttocks forcefully and pulled me down on his firm, eager shaft.
I cried out in ecstasy and nearly climaxed immediately, but I tightened my abdominal muscles to pause myself, and stiffened my legs to slow my movement.
My pause didn't last long, though, because his hands were firmly on me, and he was grinding me against his pelvic bone while moving me up and down on his equipment.
His sex was thick and filling, and I bore down harder against him, wanting more, more, burying it to the hilt and further.
Getting off this way, from strictly penetration, was not my usual way, but it was possible, if the man was big enough, and hard enough. Oh, and if he had strong arms that rocked me up and down with nearly no effort on my part.
My back broke out in a sweat.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed being worked like a machine in a factory, that throbbing member moving in and out of my slick mound like the world's greatest invention—the fuck machine.
The fuck machine, I thought.
I didn't even know his first name, but that's what he was.
His breathing changed and his movements became less controlled, more frantic.
I looked up to his face, to those hungry eyes, and saw his gaze was on the mirror above us.
I turned my head and glanced up to see what he saw.
My back, glistening with sweat and sparkling like diamonds.
My buttocks, pulsing with every thrust as I met his movements.
He cried out and closed his eyes, bucking underneath me.
His orgasm went on and on, and mine matched his, both of us writhing and moaning in unison.
I came and I came and I came some more.
Finally, as the last aftershocks pulsed out in calming waves, I fell against him, my damp chest on his, my damp hair on his face.
I slid my face down alongside his and gently nibbled his earlobe.
His manhood inside me pulsed with one last tremor, and then he sighed.
When the earth stopped moving, I rolled off him and fell to my side.
He moved his arm so that his bicep was my pillow.
He said, “What's your name?”
I considered ly
ing to him, but instead, I said, “Alexis. But everyone calls me Lexie.”
“Lexie,” he said, nodding.
“And your name is … ?”
He reached out to shake my hand. “You can call me Lou. Short for Luthor.”
“Lou,” I said. “I like that, Lou.”
He shook my face from his arm and got up, looking around nervously. “I'd best get out of here before I get caught on Mr. Thorne's carpet, with Mr. Thorne's assistant.”
I reached for his hand, to pull him back to me. “Oh, come on, Lou. Enough with the games.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “What games? You needed help with something, and my job is to fix what needs fixing around the house. I'm just doing my job, ma'am.”
“So, you're not Mr. Thorne?” I was so confused. “Wait, you are. Stop messing with my head. You certainly don't have a tan line around your neck from working outdoors.” I grabbed onto his hand. “And look. A manicure. Gardeners don't have manicures.”
He gave me a sly look. “I wasn't always a gardener.”
I scrambled to sit up and gave him a hard look. “Get out,” I said.
He chuckled. “Boy, you get your needs filled, and you're not interested in small talk at all, are you?”
“You're a peeping pervert, and you just took advantage of an innocent young woman.” I scowled at him and grabbed for my clothes. Whether he was Mr. Thorne or not, he was toying with me, and I didn't like it one bit.
“Lexie, don't be a spoilsport,” he said as he pulled on the jeans. I realized I'd not seen any jeans like those in the walk-in closet.
I said, “I'm just another conquest to you, aren't I? Just another big stakes business deal. Only I'm not a business deal. I have feelings and emotions, you know. I'm a person.”
He raised his eyebrows and took a step back, both hands in the air.
“I get it, I get it,” he said. “Oh, but I just remembered something.” He pointed to his penis, which was already hardening again, resisting his efforts to do up his jeans. “You said you'd kiss it better.”
I crossed my arms. I could definitely go for round two, and getting angry at him had only worked up my passion.
“Not until you tell me who you really are,” I said.
He reached for my shoulder, but I pulled away. He said, “I think you know who I am, Lexie.”
“Luthor Thorne,” I said. The name did seem familiar. It had been one of the names I'd been able to find on the computer two nights before.
He took a little bow as he fastened his jeans over his bulge. “At your service. Grace has tried to keep women like you away from me, but I think we both outwitted her.”
“Now what?”
“Perhaps a shower,” he said, nodding at the door that led to the attached bathroom with the enormous walk-in shower and steam nozzles.
“And then what?”
“I have a few ideas. You're some sort of consultant, right?”
“I'm a certified professional organizer.” It felt very odd to say this while standing naked in front of a man, my legs clutched together to keep his juices from getting on the luxurious sisal carpet.
“I could use another professional on my staff,” he said.
“As an organizer?”
“Something like that,” he said.
THE END OF STORY 1
Next: Borrowed Billionaire #2, Lexie Goes Shopping
(This is a 5-part series.)
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