Page 5 of Maid For The Mafia Informant

It couldn’t be. I’ve only just met her.

I know that look though.

I think I remember it.Chapter ThreeSophieI feel myself starting to sway. If Benjamin Slade was damp-worthy in his photographs, the man in real life is a flooding torrent between my legs.

“Sit down,” he commands firmly, eyeing the seat nearest me again, shifting in his own so we’re face to face.

Keeping his upside down papers over his lap, he studies me with his dark, brooding eyes.

They’re as intense as the rest of the man, and although he’s sitting down, his presence is huge.

Massive.

Broad shoulders and a V-shaped torso cut through the tight fitting fabric of a suit that, although creased from a few days of wear is still taught over his muscular frame.

Three days of stubble and the open neck of his shirt, coupled with what I can only imagine is a real man’s actually scent, I’m suddenly grateful to be sitting down.

My own legs cross and I involuntarily start to pump my foot, pressing my legs together, making me gasp.

Aching to relieve the sensation between my legs.

This is the effect the real life Ben Slade has on me.

A million times more potent than any photograph.

Noting my reaction, he cocks a brow and lets out a low sound. Like an animal sizing up its prey as his gaze continues to shamelessly scan me.

I should be offended, upset. But it’s the way he’s looking at me that tells me he’s not like the rest.

He’s a man who knows what he wants and by the looks of things, he likes what he sees.

I unhook my legs, I have to. The feeling I’m giving myself in such close proximity to the man is too much.

I’ve never touched myself. Not like that anyway, only ever to wash and maybe do some landscaping.

As I unhook my legs though, his eyes bore down onto the tiny swatch of my panties I know he catches a micro-glimpse of from under my white skirt.

Again, I should feel embarrassed, ashamed that he’d even look.

But his low growl and narrowing eyes as he shifts in his seat again only make me wish I could be pressing my pussy together again.

For him.

What the hell is the matter with me? This is supposed to be a job, and here I am, literally about to-

Well, who knows what I’m about to do, but it feels freaking awesome.

“Maid, huh?” he rasps, suddenly catching my attention, dragging it from the stack of papers on his lap that I suspect is hiding more than just some expensive pants.

His look is penetrating, suddenly not so interested in what I thought. Maybe suspicious instead.

He leans forward, his eyes fixed on mine.

“Why should I trust you to go through my things?” he asks accusingly, making me flush with embarrassment now, clutching my neck and squirming in my seat for a new reason.

I feel hurt. If only he knew. If only I could just tell him.

I lie awake at night thinking about your mouth on me, wishing I wasn’t so uptight so I could touch myself when I think about you?

Maybe it’s best to leave that one out for now.

“I’ve been checked out by the agency,” I say, watching his brow again as I hear the defensive tone in my own voice.

“Plus… Plus I’m a very good maid. Maybe if you’d just let me show you?” I start to say, trying to get up but feeling my legs go to jelly again as he considers me all over again before waving his hand absently.

“Sit down,” he murmurs. “I trust ya. I trusted you the moment I saw you down in the street,” he adds, his lip curling as he takes in another view of my chest, which I only realize now is so hard, almost painfully arousal I can feel my nipples scratching through the fabric of my blouse.

He seems to collect himself, puffing out air from his cheeks and glancing around, as if someone might overhear us.

“What do the papers say, Sophie? They won’t let me see ‘em in here. They’ve limited my internet too so I can barely do my work.”

I feel my face screwing up, remembering what agent Partridge said, about telling anyone anything.

“Good,” he finally says to himself, newly satisfied as he leans back. “Partridge has told you to keep your mouth shut, even to me.”

I take a breath, wanting to explain, but think better of it as he holds up a finger, which he then presses to his own lips.

“So, clean. Go ahead,” he says finally, his voice sounding weary, tired, but his eyes still moving over me as I get up and move towards the closet to find the vacuum, stepping over piles of papers and take out bags.

If it were anyone else, I’d be annoyed, but somehow even the prospect of cleaning up after Benjamin Slade feels like an honor.

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