Authors: Mimi Strong
This is an erotic short story, or
. Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story. This story you're ogling on your hot little digital device is about 12,000 words, or 50 book pages long. This short story is split into three parts, with each one being suitable for a quick lunch time read, or perhaps a snack before bedtime. You can certainly devour it all in one sitting.
This story contains super-hot sex and erotic scenes, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.
Part 1: Job Offer, Rescinded
I never went to business school, but I was pretty sure doing negotiations while being naked 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
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 climaxing, 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.
“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 breasts. 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.
He said, “I told her I wouldn't touch a woman for three months.”
“How long has it been?”
“You don't want to know.”
I didn't. I didn't want to think of him being with anyone but me. I tucked my fingers into the waistband of his jeans. “So it's a bet or something? What happens if you forfeit?”
He shook his head and laughed, then shut his mouth, lips tight. There was no way he was telling me. I wondered what it could be. What could a billionaire have to fear from his own staff member? Grace definitely gave off the lesbian vibe, so I figured it wouldn't be sex with her.
“What about the job offer?” I asked, my eagerness creeping into my voice as desperation. Professional organizing was great work, when you could get it. Lately, I hadn't been getting it that much.
“Let's talk in a few months,” he said, and he kissed me on the forehead.
He looked straight into my eyes. His were brown-green, hazel I guess, and looked like they were laughing, even when he wasn't. I could just die, looking into those eyes.
“It was nice meeting you, kid,” he said.
“It's Lexie. Lexie Ross.”
He winked at me and started back down the ladder.
“Wait!” I said, leaning out the window.
The tapping came again, at the locked door to the bedroom. I could hear Grace muttering on the other side, about what in heaven's name was I doing in the bathroom for so long.
I lost my balance and nearly tipped right out of the window, but Mr. Thorne caught me. I laughed, embarrassed at my klutziness, and this time, I held onto the window frame.
“Can I have one kiss?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
He seemed to think about this for a few seconds, then slowly approached me. His face was skeptical, like a kid about to eat a new type of vegetable. This did not make me feel very attractive at all.
But then his lips touched mine. He tasted salty and sweet and warm. Our lips fit perfectly together, and then our tongues. I pressed myself toward him, hungry for more contact. My nipples grazed his chest just before he pulled away.
Huskily, he said, “That's how I get in trouble.”
“I like trouble.”
He grabbed me then, so suddenly I thought for an instant he was falling and pulling me out the window with him. And you know what? I didn't care. Even if we'd been toppling to our death, that kiss was so good, I couldn't let go.
With one hand on the windowsill for balance, his other hand snaked around behind me and grabbed my butt cheeks. He gripped me from underneath, his fingertips sinking into my soft body.
I moaned with pleasure, against his mouth.
I reached down and grabbed for the waistband of his jeans, seeking to unbutton them and let out that divine monster I'd seen twice already. I wanted him in my mouth, my hot, wet mouth.
But he pulled away from me, and he slipped down the ladder, the soles of his shoes banging out his progress away from me.
My hair fell forward, over my shoulders, and I was Rapunzel, the girl in the castle who's so desperate for a man she lets him climb up her hair.
Mr. Thorne could climb up my hair.
He gave me a wave once he reached the ground, and disappeared, off to play gardener again, I guessed.
I moaned and made a fist with one hand, then leaned into it against the wall, pushing my palm against my aching mound. No fair! I felt like pitching a childish fit. I wanted something, and I couldn't have it, and that made me very cranky.
The tapping at the door grew more insistent.
I stopped abusing myself, closed the window, fastened it, and ran to let Grace in.
When I opened the door, she sniffed the air and looked around the room suspiciously.
Did she know he'd been there? Could she tell we'd just had sex—albeit quickly and way too briefly—right there on the carpet?
I coughed into my hand and said, “I must have eaten some bad tacos last night. I just had the worst thing come out of me in the bathroom. The color of it was just so—”
She cut me off with a hand held up, palm toward me, and her expression softened. She stopped sniffing the air, no longer wanting to collect evidence.
“Looks good,” Grace said, nodding at the bed, now pushed into the corner and looking more forlorn than sexy. “I guess you get your bonus after all.”
I practically rubbed my hands together.
“Oh, Grace, I could hug you,” I said.
She gave me a crooked smile. The woman was about fifty, but a hot fifty, and she was the type of woman who appreciated my assets, even if I wasn't into the whole scissoring and carpet-diving scene. Don't get me wrong, ladies are great at kissing, and I'd kiss any woman who asked, but going downtown wasn't on my must-see sensual tourism list.
She pulled out the roll of money, which did make her look more attractive, actually.