Lexie's First Time - A Prequel to Borrowed Billionaire and Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) (3 page)

I spent the entire month of July cleaning rental cabins and cottages.

Cabins
and
cottages, you ask? Yes. What's the difference? I'll tell you!

They are almost interchangeable terms, but cabins are usually made of wood and not insulated for winter living. A cottage is basically a house, made of any material, but its remote location makes it a cottage and not a house.

When you're trying not to breathe in other people's pubic hairs while pulling dirty sheets off a bed, you have lots of time to think about such matters.

I also spent way too much time thinking about sex—namely, all the sex I wasn't having.

Because I was working on my own, I fell into a daily routine of hustling my ass to get all my cleaning done as quickly as possible, then doing dirty things to myself. You know how Pavlov's dogs were trained to drool at the ring of a bell, expecting to be fed? I got that way about expensive linens with a high thread count. I'd unfold those Egyptian Cotton sheets and run my fingers along the fold lines, getting wet with anticipation for later running my fingers through my own pink folds.

In August, Carridee got a new contract, for a cabin that was quite a ways from town. Her husband Richard bought us one of those four-wheeled, all-terrain vehicles to drive to and from the cabin along a trail.

This cabin was quite a bit larger than the others, and you passed through a tight mudroom before entering the main space, which made the vaulted ceiling and chandelier with antlers seem even more grand.

The only thing wrong with the place was the outdated kitchen, but by the look of the wood and tile samples on the counter, that was about to get renovated. I looked over the designer drawings and imagined I was the cabin's rich lady owner, picking my favorite finishings. I chose rich, dark wood for the cabinets and a creamy marble for the counters.

As I swept up the floors and dusted all the light switches, I looked around for clues about the owner. I found men's shaving cream in the bathroom, but nothing else, so that mystery didn't last long.

What kind of man was he?

I opened the closet in the master bedroom and sucked in my breath. The closet looked like a men's clothing store—a fancy one. I carefully pulled out one crisp, pinstriped shirt and lay it on the bed. By the shape of the shirt, the guy wasn't fat or thin or super tall or short, but right in the middle. The wardrobe had a lot of colors, so that meant he wasn't old, unless he was
stylish
(by which I mean gay.)

Something made a scratching noise, and I jumped in alarm. It seemed to be a tree branch on the window, but I listened carefully to make sure I was still alone. The cleaning clients usually chose to be out during my visits, but this was a new place, and I had no idea what to expect. The man could come home at any moment.

I took off my T-shirt and shivered in just my bra and shorts. What was I doing? I was shocked by my behavior, but not enough to stop myself.

I picked up the man's shirt and pulled it on over my warm skin. The fabric was crisp and firm, yet comfortable, like your favorite sheets right after laundry day.

With the shirt on, still unbuttoned, I unzipped my jean shorts and stepped out of them. I found a full-length mirror along one wall and admired myself, chewing one fingertip and giving myself a seductive look, my dark bangs falling over one eye.

“I like your shirt,” I murmured. “You don't mind if I borrow it, do you?”

My reflection gave me a lascivious look that surprised me.

“I really enjoy having sex with you.”

My hands dove down, between my legs, over my panties, and I dragged my fingertip over that sensitive area. My nub was swollen within its fleshy surrounds.

“Let's do it again,” I said. “Put your big cock in my mouth and then jam it in my pussy.”

I giggled at my first attempt of out-loud dirty talk. How did people say that stuff with a straight face? People on porno sets must be laughing their asses off half the time.

I rubbed my clit some more, aware that I was probably crinkling the fabric of the shirt around the armpits, but the heat started to build, and I didn't want to stop.

The bed was right there, so I climbed in on the rumpled sheets, breathing in deeply to take in the scent of this unseen, unknown man.

The sheets were almost as heavenly as the shirts, and smelled of the same detergent—lavender. I grabbed all the pillows and piled them together to form a body shape, then I rolled on top, on my stomach. I stuck my hand down my panties, drove my finger through my slick juices, then did that perfectly natural, calorie-free thing we all do, when we're alone and horny. I humped those pillows.

When I was done, I buried the crisp shirt at the bottom of the dirty laundry hamper and put on my own boring clothes.

I wanted to have a nap in that luxurious bed, but I didn't want to risk a Goldilocks-and-the-Three-Bears type situation, so I got to work cleaning the cabin.

My next visit to the luxury cabin, the owner was still not home, but I found something he'd left for me.

A plate of freshly-baked cookies sat on the counter, along with a note:

Dear housekeeper, please help yourself. DSW

I ran my finger over the note, transfixed by the handwriting. The loops were confident. The capital letters were enormous. The note seemed so casual, and yet it was on an index card, like the kind you might find in a box of your grandmother's recipes. Why not a Post-It Note?

The index card reminded me of
Alice in Wonderland,
with the neat little cards that read
Eat Me
or
Drink Me
. Who set out those notes for Alice, anyway?

I did a little more snooping this time, mostly in the second upstairs bedroom, where the cabin's owner had a desk set up. The computer was on, but protected by a password. I typed in the word
password
, but the computer beeped at me. I tried
password1234
next, and giggled at my stupidity when I got the inevitable beep.

“Lexie, don't be bad,” I told myself in the quiet, empty cabin.

“But being good is so boring,” I replied.

I pulled open the desk's right-hand drawer and found a dozen still-wrapped packages of index cards. I yanked open the left-hand drawer and found more cards, only these ones were written on, in the same tidy, sexy handwriting.

The cards said things like:

Act I – Crime is more complicated than it first appeared. Secrets? Something dark in Dunham's past?

Chapter 3 – Subplot A is introduced. Love interest? Redhead? Young or old?

I wanted to keep reading the index cards, but my conscience and sense of propriety finally started doing their job, so I stuck everything back in the drawer, careful of the arrangement.

Cleaning went quickly that day, as my head was in the clouds the whole time, thinking about detective novels and movies, and wondering what the initials DSW stood for. My cell phone didn't have internet browsing, but I planned to look on the shared computer at Carridee's house as soon as I got back, if I could drag all her kids away from their games.

After I finished cleaning the cabin, I stripped off my clothes and locked the door of the master bathroom so I could take a shower. I tied my hair up carefully, so that if the owner got home while I was in there, I'd say I was just cleaning the shower and must have locked the door out of habit when I was taking a bathroom break.

The shower had all these wonderful different spray attachments, and I was curious about the removable wand. I changed the spray to pulse and held it so it sprayed directly onto my pussy. Since the party at Laura's house, I hadn't kept up the full Brazilian waxing, so my hair was coming in, but fine, and I enjoyed the innocent look of that area.

The soft, pulsing water reminded me of my sole experience with a boy, when I'd been licked to climax by Lars. In the soft, summer rain.

I closed my eyes and remembered the merry-go-round gently turning, and the rain coming down, feeling like it might steam off my hot skin. I climaxed surprisingly fast, gasping in pleasure. I kept the water trained in the same spot and was rewarded by a second and then a third orgasm, in rapid succession.

“That was… interesting,” I said as I put the spray wand back in place.

Did everyone do that with removable spray wands in the shower? Did people know about this?

I did a quick mental checklist of showers. We certainly didn't have one of those at my house, or I would have tripled our water bill. There was no magic massaging wand at Carridee's house, but there were a few at the better cabins.

My knees were shaking when I stepped out of the shower, and I let out a nervous laugh to break my own tension. I couldn't use one of the cabin's towels, as I didn't want to be found out, so I squeezed the water off my body by hand, and finished drying myself off with some clean rags from my housekeeper's kit.

After I got dressed again, I went downstairs and ate all the cookies.

I was already out the door of the cabin when I had an idea, so I ran back in and wrote on the note DSW had left me:

Thank you for the yummy cookies! They were so good.

I stared at my lumpy handwriting beneath his. My handwriting had no confidence. And I'd used the word
yummy
. I was eighteen, not twelve, so what was that all about?

I put the pen down and started to leave again, but doubled back and added a question to the note, so that the conversation might continue:

Did you bake the cookies yourself?

On my next visit, he'd left a brand-new index card, along with different cookies.

Dear housekeeper, I hope you like gingersnaps. Yes, I made them myself. What is your name? I might name a character after you, if you don't mind. I'm writing my first detective novel, in case you're wondering. DSW.

So that explained why I hadn't been able to figure out his name—this was his first novel, and he wasn't published yet.

I cleaned the cabin, then put on one of his shirts and got started on myself in the bedroom, finishing in the magnificent shower.

These notes went on for several visits, and I'd built DSW up in my mind so much, that when I arrived at the cabin one day toward the end of summer, I was horrified to find someone was there. Horrified. I had to sit on a bench in the mudroom and put my head between my knees to get my breathing under control.

Our notes had started off innocent, but things had taken a turn for the flirty. My cleaning frequency had been increased to multiple times per week. The cabin wasn't that messy, with only one person staying there, and I suspected the owner was paying to have me come by and write him notes.

Here's how it went:

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

DSW
: Lexie. That's a pretty name, and it rhymes with the word sexy. Are you sexy, Lexie? Do people call you Sexy Lexie?

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Me
: Only sarcastically. I could be sexy if I wanted to, maybe. I have long legs, and I guess some guys like that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

DSW
: I like long legs. I like everything. I'm not married, by the way. I hope you don't mind, but sometimes I think about you…