Part 1: Job Offer, Rescinded
I never went to business school, but I was pretty sure doing negotiations while being na**d was a bad idea.
I pulled on my panties and did up my bra, saying, “Tell me more about this job opportunity.”
Luthor Thorne had his jeans on, which was a shame, as he had a beautiful cock. I'd seen it. In fact, I had taken it for a little ride moments earlier, right in the middle of the master bedroom of his mansion, on the plush sisal carpet. Peering up at myself in the mirror on the ceiling had doubled the pleasure from my delicious orgasm, and I was cooling down, but one glance at the almost-ready-again bulge in his pants made me think I could go for round two.
Mr. Thorne—I was used to thinking of him that way, as I'd only just learned his first name—took a seat in one of the reading chairs in the expansive room. He didn't put his T-shirt on, which was fine by me, because I didn't mind the view of those abs and those strong chest muscles.
Those arms, I thought. He could probably pick a gal up and easily pin her to the wall! My mouth watered at the thought, as did my still-throbbing lower regions.
“What I really need is an assistant,” he said. “Maybe something entry level.”
“I'm not entry level. I'm a professional organizer,” I said, for the second time in less than ten minutes. I pulled on my skirt and blouse and gave him my Business Face. Man, I wished I had my Bitch Boots with me, and not my silly pumps with the sensible heels. Those shoes gave me no edge.
“But I want you to be … entry level.” He gave me a wicked look, flicking one dark eyebrow and gazing up at me with those gorgeous green eyes.
I crossed my arms. He was toying with me, like a cat with a mouse. But … I'd just gotten off, and I'm impervious to male charm for at least ten minutes or so post-orgasm. It's like my secret weapon. One time, when I was a barely twenty, I'd been dating this guy, a professor, who made my mound throb with desire the moment I walked into his classroom. He had me wrapped around his little finger, in more ways than one, but I'd finally summoned up the courage to break up with him.
It was actually quite the scene, and I still get a twisted little smile on my face thinking about it.
I'd been riding him like the stallion he was, cowgirl style, and I'd just moaned my way to a pretty-decent orgasm. I'd had to do most of the work myself, as the professor was a lazy man, but it was worthwhile. I made him hold absolutely still, not moving a muscle, as the hot and cool sensations washed over me. I'd even seen a little light that time, blue then pink. He bit his lip, but held still as I finished cl**axing, then fell onto him, exhausted, my hair in his mouth.
The professor spat out my hair, grabbed my ass, and started pulling me up and down on his slick rod, but I was done. I was done with him, and I knew it in that instant.
I'd sat up suddenly, surprising him, and said, “I need a glass of water.”
He'd stammered, “What?”
“Glass of water. I'm so thirsty. You don't mind, do you, baby?”
He grimaced, but I pulled off of him, and his equipment slipped out into the cool air. “Fine,” he said, and he went off to the kitchen to fetch me a water, his handle flopping around, pointing the way.
As I'm sure you've guessed by now, I had my clothes on before he returned to the room, and I announced that I was ending it with him. I snapped a pic with my phone and told him if he tried to pursue me—if he said even one word to me—I'd report him to the Dean.
And that was that.
I still had the photo on my phone, and I'd even used the pic as inspiration from time to time.
As easy as it had been to walk away from the professor, though, walking away from this new guy, the hunky and atrociously wealthy Mr. Thorne, didn't seem like it would be so easy.
At least I had all my clothes back on when I sat in the chair across from him.
He said, waving one relaxed hand at the bedroom, “This new arrangement of furniture is awful.”
“Thank you!” I said, beaming. I'd been hired to do my professional organizing work at the mansion. I was on the third day, which had been an odd job—practicing the art of feng shui to make the bedroom less sexy, less sensual. This woman, Grace, who worked for Mr. Thorne in some capacity that hadn't been defined, had hired me.
The room was still packed with too many expensive furnishings and fine linens to be completely non-sexy, but it was maybe fifty percent less sexy. I definitely knew my line of work, which was a big part of why I wasn't jumping at the idea of an entry level position for Mr. Thorne, whatever that meant.
“Why don't you tell me more about your business,” I said, crossing my legs. I was still hot from our quickie sex session on the floor, and my thighs stuck to each other, sweating from the heat in the room. The air conditioning was working perfectly, so the heat had to be more of a psychological thing.
“You can learn while on the job,” he said.
I turned my head to give him side-eye. “I do have business skills. I won't be washing dishes in one of your … hotel chains?”
He shook his head.
“Restaurants?”
“We have dish washers,” he said. “And managers, and chefs. I may have to create a position for you.”
Position? I could think of a few. I licked my lips and studied the bulge in his jeans. Was it growing bigger? I crossed and uncrossed my legs, arching my back to stick out my br**sts. My top button strained to come undone, to give him a peek. He'd already seen me naked, but I knew the game was back on. Getting dressed had been smart of me.
Mr. Thorne swallowed hard, staring at the button.
A gentle knock came at the door.
I jumped a little, but Mr. Thorne practically shot right out of his pants, he jumped up so quickly.
He whispered to me, “Grace.”
I called to her, “Just a moment, I'm in the washroom,” then shrugged at him. Grace had promised me a nice, juicy bonus if I finished my three days' worth of organizing without being seen or heard by Mr. Thorne. I slapped my hand to my face, feeling the pain of losing that money. It was the third day, and I'd come so close. I'd almost made it, but Mr. Thorne had climbed a ladder outside the window, pretending to be a gardener, and then I'd gone and let him in.
He said, “I've gotta get out of here before she catches me.” He already had his T-shirt back on and was climbing out the window.
I ran over to him, “What kind of game are you two playing? Doesn't she work for you? I don't understand.”
He put on his hat and stood on the ladder, outside of the window. Moments earlier, we'd been in just that position when he'd opened his pants and I had first touched that beautiful manhood of his. I was already aching for more, petulant that he was leaving me in need.