She glanced up and gave me a smirk. Oh, she saw.
Grace, who looked about fifty, but a feisty fifty, licked her lips.
“Come,” she said, wiggling a finger.
I’d love to, but you’re not my type, I thought, smiling sweetly.
“Of course,” I said, and I followed her up a grand wooden staircase.
She took me down a hall, around a corner, and then led me into a closet, and by closet, I mean an entire room, bigger than my two-bedroom condominium and then some. As she explained the job, I wandered around the walk-in closet. Trying to stay focused on her words, I stroked one smooth cotton shirtsleeve after another, that familiar sexy feeling flowering in my silk panties. If only Grace would stop talking about the seasonal shift and the wardrobe transition and leave me alone with the clothes! There was some talk about a moth infestation that had gotten into the wool drawers, but had been taken care of. Unfortunately, the moth people had completely boned up—my words, not Grace’s—the organization.
“He’s in the shower now,” Grace said.
The faint smell of cologne that lingered in the room, emanating from the clothes, was relaxing me, loosening my tongue. I giggled, unprofessionally. “Who’s in the shower? The moth man?”
The scowl returned. “Mr. Thorne.”
“Oh. I look forward to meeting him.”
She crossed her arms. “You won’t see him. You’re going to lock this door from the inside. I’ve laid out his clothes on his bed, so he has no reason to come in here. Do not make a peep, and do not let him know you’re in here.” She gave me a meaningful look. What exactly she meant, I had no idea, but surely it was meaningful. And serious. “Do you understand?”
“Don’t come out of the closet,” I said, nodding. “Got it.”
“Not even if there’s a fire,” she said.
“We may have to charge extra if there’s a fire,” I joked.
She pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “If you can get this entire closet organized today, and then two more jobs done over the next two days, there’s a bonus in it for you. Cash, no report to your employer. But on one condition. You must complete the job without being seen, heard, or smelled, by Mr. Thorne.”
“Smelled?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “He has keen senses.”
I bit my lower lip. That was a lot of money. Professional organizing paid well, when you could get the work. Truth was, I stuck to vintage furniture in my condo because it looked great and I knew a few places I could get great deals. I wasn’t exactly flush with cash, especially not after investing in so much wardrobe. The month and the money usually ran out at the same time. With that much cash, I could have a safety net. I could even set up my own business and quit being pimped out by Suzanne, as much fun as she was.
“I aim to satisfy,” I said.
Her eyes twinkled. “I bet you do. Let’s be sure none of it happens with Mr. Thorne. Only with his wardrobe.”
A door opened and closed nearby. Grace cocked her head.
I whispered, “Is that him?”
A man’s voice floated out like a bass string on a cello. He said, “Grace, I don’t think it’s turtleneck weather.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, then grabbed a summer sweater from nearby. I whispered, “Silly Grace, it’s not turtleneck weather for another month.”
She snatched the green sweater from my hands and backed away. “Not a peep, remember?” She deftly twisted the handle of the door to lock it from the inside and pulled it shut.
Alone in the room, I had a good look around. The clothes were not unusual—the typical well-made but low-key wardrobes you see on business leaders and movie stars. By comparison, my gray tweed suit, which wasn’t cheap, looked like a dust rag.
Where was Mr. Thorne? I’d lost all sense of direction after being led through the long hallway, and the room had no windows for reference.
Mr. Thorne. What a hot name. I didn’t see any clothes that might belong to a Mrs. Thorne.
The room had three doors, and he had to be on the other side of one of them, getting dressed, fresh from a hot shower.
I listened at the door Grace had left through, but heard nothing.
I started working, mentally mapping out where I’d put the ties and socks, when my thoughts were interrupted by the low murmur of a man, singing. Singing?
My Bitch Boots were too noisy on the hardwood floor. They’d be a dead giveaway if he was nearby, so I zipped them off and ran barefoot to one of the other doors, listening for the man’s voice. He wasn’t behind door number two, but he wasn’t far away, behind door number three. On the other side of the wall.
I put my ear to the door and breathed deeply as he hummed the wordless melody of a familiar song.
One of my hands moved down to the hem of my skirt and stroked the inside of my thigh. I shivered. That touch felt good, the cool hand on my thigh. Not as good as a man’s hand, but nice.
He kept singing, louder now, with that deep voice. Was it opera? There were words, but they sounded Italian, not English.
Both hands darted between my legs, rubbing and pinching the sensitive skin. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him. If he was the man all these suits belonged to, that meant he was tall, with broad shoulders, and a narrow waist. Maybe a swimmer’s physique, I thought as one hand slipped inside my red panties.
He stopped singing, and for a moment, I felt self-conscious, like someone could see me. There were three doors, but they were all closed, and Grace had locked them all, hadn’t she?
I yanked my hand out from my panties and carefully checked the lock on the nearest door, and then the other two. All the doors were locked, which meant I could do whatever I wanted, which was definitely not organizing the socks. Not yet. The socks could wait.
My need had started up the night before, dancing at the club between two attractive men, roommates or friends or something. I had to choose which one to go home with, and I’d chosen poorly. He’d been fast asleep before I’d even gotten warmed up.
The morning after, mildly dehydrated and extremely frustrated, I was suffering, but not for long.
I pulled off my gray jacket and hung it on a wooden hanger, then slipped out of my skirt.
There was a wood chair in the middle of the room, and I soundlessly brought it over to the door where I’d heard Mr. Thorne’s voice, and I took a seat, my legs parted wide. The singing began again. I leaned my head against the door and ran my hands over my br**sts, still in the red bra, and then up and down my legs. The desire blossomed out from my belly once more, with a ferocity.