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The Walk-In - Borrowed Billionaire Book #1
    Description: A very confident, sex-loving personal organizer meets a mysterious billionaire, who may be a sex addict.
    Length: 12,000 words, or 48 book pages long. This is the first of a 5-part series, and #1 does end in a small cliffhanger. If you'd like to keep reading about Lexie and Luthor, there are four more stories available separately, not part of this anthology.
    Spice Level: Very spicy, with frequent, graphic sex scenes. WARNING: While the series is mainly about Lexie and Luthor, some of the stories explore Lexie's other romantic relationships, on the way to her Happily Ever After. Also, Lexie masturbates A LOT. Just sayin'.

    Turn the page to dive into Borrowed Billionaire #1, The Walk-In by Mimi Strong.
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PART 1: The Dress Shirt
    How are you supposed to meet people these days if you aren't a computer nerd? I've tried nightclubs, but you can't hear what a cute guy's saying over the music, and two or three drinks doesn't exactly help your judgment. If you do hook up with someone attractive, you have to do the morning-after walk of shame, with your panties in your purse, and the worst part is, that deep craving has turned into an unfulfilled ache, because the drunk guy who seemed hot enough at the bar turns out to live in his mother's basement and thinks foreplay is something you do on the golf course.
    I'd just returned from such a shameful walk when I got the call. I tossed my keys into the bowl by the door and sat on my vintage chair while I jotted down the details. Some rich jerk was having an organizational crisis, and it was time for me to have a shower, put on my Bitch Boots, and go color-sort a wardrobe full of designer ties and sixty-dollar socks.
    Such is the life of a professional organizer who caters to the needs of the mega-rich. Oh, I used to cater to the needs of the just-rich-enough, but then I discovered the Bitch Boots, and they promised me the power to break into the mega-rich market. Or so I believed. In any case, I'd started dressing better, and the jobs had gotten better, and I wasn't complaining about either. You gotta love a quality fabric.
    Over the phone, I told Suzanne I'd drive to the client's in an hour. I checked my breath on my hand. “Make that an hour and a half,” I said. “I need to hydrate.”
    “Not acceptable!” she yelled into the phone from her side. “We're on the cusp, here, Lexie. Be there by eleven or I'll send another girl.”
    “You wouldn't.”
    “I'll send Trisha,” she said, but her voice had that quiver that said she was bluffing.
    “Trisha's in Boston, visiting her mother. I'll be there by eleven-thirty.”
    Her voice steely, she said, “Eleven-fifteen.”
    “Suzanne, have I ever told you what an excellent pimp you'd make?”
    I went on to elaborate about pimp-style wardrobe choices and pimping out her little Honda, but she'd already ended the call.
    The address I'd jotted down looked familiar. Was it that mansion I'd drive by and gaze at when I was feeling like a have-not and wanted to make myself feel even worse? No, it couldn't be. Whoever lived in that place would have full-time staff and wouldn't mess around with contractors like me.
    I looked down at the cell phone in my hand, which I was absent-mindedly rubbing across the ache between my thighs, the edge of the phone digging a little deeper by the second. If only I'd gotten off last night or this morning, my mind wouldn't be such a mess.
    A quickie in the shower would take care of my problems, at least for the day.
    Unfortunately for me and my aching nub, the phone rang again—the one on the wall, connected to the intercom. Mrs. O'Hara was at the front door and needed help with her groceries. I cursed my inner Good Samaritan and took the elevator down to help her. No good deed goes unpunished, as they say, so Mrs. O'Hara treated