The Walk-In Read Free Page B

this way, I heard a man’s voice, outside the door. The door wasn’t locked, because Grace had said Mr. Thorne was out golfing and not due home for hours.
    Grace was talking to him, very loud, telling him not to go into his office because … she thought she saw a mouse in there. A mouse! I glanced around.
    “Use the laptop in the kitchen,” she pleaded.
    “Don’t be ridiculous. A mouse? How would it have gotten in here?”
    “Through the door?” she said. “I think I saw one come in when the groceries were being delivered. A little white one.”
    Oh, Grace , I thought, you’re not the world’s greatest liar, are you?
    Mr. Thorne laughed at the idea of being afraid of a mouse. The door opened. He came into the room.
    He paused, and I was sure he saw me, crouched in the shadow underneath the thick wood desk, like a mouse in a cave.
    “I don’t see a mouse,” he called back to Grace.
    She sounded flustered as she prattled on about mice and their habits.
    He dismissed her, closed the door, and crossed the room. I caught a glimpse of golf shoes, and a whiff of his cologne.
    “No mouse,” he said to himself. “But I do smell pussy.” I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined him shaking his head as he said, “Must be my imagination.”
    I bit my lip and breathed in deeply, trying to filter the smell of myself through my nostrils, like some human air freshener, which was ridiculous, but when you’re hiding under a billionaire’s desk and a big roll of cash is on the line, you do what you have to do.
    “Mousey, mousey, mousey,” he said, and he pulled the chair away from in front of me. “Pussy, pussy, pussycat?”
    My breath caught in my throat.
    He sat down on the chair, his legs wide, and his crotch facing me.
    I gulped, a little too loud, I feared.
    He had quite the package, from the look of it. I licked my lips as the blood rushed to my own crotch area.
    He was so close to me, and yet, I couldn’t do anything. I wondered what he would do if I reached out and gently unfastened that expensive-looking belt buckle.
    As if my own feverish imagination was making my thoughts reality, his own hand unfastened his belt. He had thick fingers, young-looking, with shiny nails, as though they’d been buffed. Of course he’d have a manicure , I thought. A guy that rich probably had four girls work on him at once to save time, one for each hand and foot. Maybe he had a fifth girl too, for other buffing needs.
    I licked my lips again and swallowed hard, because my mouth was watering.
    The bulge in his pants was moving, growing larger, taller.
    He groaned and adjusted himself, the tip of it emerging above the edge of his waistband.
    Come on, baby, just undo that zipper, I coaxed him with my mind.
    “Hello,” he said.
    My heart nearly skipped a beat. He knew I was there! I opened my mouth to answer him, but my vocal chords locked, and thank goodness, because he wasn’t talking to me, as it turned out.
    “No preference,” he said, apparently on the phone. “Oh, unless Candy’s there. Is Candy there? Nice. Yes, I’ll hold.”
    One of his hands slipped into his pants while the other one undid the fastener and folded down the opening. He sighed as he brought out his equipment. He shifted his weight and slid his pants partly down to let everything out.
    He moved a little closer to the desk, his foot nearly touching my knee. I could smell the musk coming from between his legs, and it excited me. He’d worked up a little fresh sweat on the sunny golf course, and it smelled good. It smelled like a man. I’d been with some boys lately, but not with a man. Not since …
    Mr. Thorne kicked off his golf shoes, and one of them struck me softly on the shin, but he didn’t notice. I pushed the lovely shoe a few inches away from me. They looked custom-made, just like so many of the items in his walk-in closet.
    I looked at his crumpled pants and thought, Shame on you, Mr. Thorne, you ought to hang those up, or they’ll