Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle by Mimi Strong Page A

me to a libido-crushing anecdote about having a cyst lanced. I got her and her groceries loaded into her condo and refused her offerings of lemonade.
    Back in my place with no time to spare, I barely had time to splash some water on my face, pull on my I-Mean-Business gray suit (the most expensive thing I owned, that I was still paying off) and my Bitch Boots, and dashed down to my car.
    On the drive over, I wondered what kind of job was ahead of me. Suzanne hadn't told me how much work there was, or how many days I'd be on the case, but I didn't care.
    The address was in the rich part of the city, and, while I love organizing almost anything, there's a very special joy I get from handling designer suits and ties and those custom-made shirts. Oh, those shirts!
    My loins were still aching, unsatisfied. I had to organize things all day, but I knew the minute I saw one of those shirts, I'd be dreaming about pulling one on over my naked body and then riding something, maybe a leather ottoman. Better yet, some hot, muscled thing, like a gardener or a pool boy. I'd unbutton the shirt, grab onto the sides of one of those button-upholstered leather ottomans rich people always have in their walk-in closets, and I'd make that pool boy blush and squeal.
    “Lexie Ross!” I admonished myself. “Enough of your filth. Get your mind on the job.”
    Mmm, pool boy. Blow job?
    “The organizing!” I reminded myself. “Gotta get paid.”
    I arrived at the address Suzanne had given me and pulled the car under the shade of an enormous oak tree.
    The address. It was the one . The mansion. The home of my dreams. Thick columns at the front, a wrought iron gate, and timeless architecture. The landscaping was impeccable, almost drawing attention from the house.
    After I turned off the engine, I smoothed down my gray suit, sliding my hand in under the jacket to give each of my breasts a little I'll-Get-To-You-Later squeeze.

    The woman who answered the door shut it immediately when she saw my face.
    I pressed the buzzer again and spoke confidently into the intercom, “My name is Lexie Ross. I'm from Busy Town Organization, and I do have an appointment.”
    “How old are you?” she asked through the intercom. I imagined her wrinkled lips flattening into a line at the end of the question.
    “Twenty-eight,” I said, adding on two years.
    “We requested someone with more experience.”
    I rolled my eyes—a bad habit I was trying to break. “I've been organizing for seven years,” I said, doubling my time and adding a year for good measure. So what, everybody exaggerates on their resume, I figured.
    She opened the door, revealing an elegant face with minimal, tasteful makeup. “I'm not allowing any young women near Mr. Thorne,” she said.
    “Does he eat them?” I joked.
    She scowled. I thought her scowl couldn't get any deeper, and then she saw my Bitch Boots, and it did.
    I extended my hand and said, warmly, “It's nice to meet you, Ms.… ?”
    She looked both ways and waved me into the house—or should I say, mansion.
    “Call me Grace,” she said, and she shook my hand. “Next time, you'll come in through the side, to the servants' entrance.”
    “Of course,” I said, looking up first at the enormous chandelier and then down at the gleaming marble tile floor. The tiles were so shiny, and reflective. I could see the chandelier beneath me. I caught a glimpse of my red silk panties in the reflection and quickly shifted my feet together before Grace could see them.
    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