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 br**sts, 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 br**sts 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 ni**les 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.