Page 4 of Maid For The Mafia Informant

My back’s to the door but I can feel her. She’s here.

The sound of a plastic trolley and Partridge spouting off about something all sounds like it’s coming from far away, underwater even.

All I can sense is her and every instinct I have is telling me to turn around and look at her.

But I can’t, I won’t let Partridge know I’m interested. He fucking hates my guts and would delight himself by doing anything he could to ruin my chances with her.

Whoever she is.

“Alright,” I hear Partridge instructing her from across the room. “There’s the cart with all the supplies, the vacuum is in the closet over there. You can take as long as you want, but remember the rules,” he says solemnly, motioning silence by zipping his own lips and tossing an invisible key away.

I can see his shape in the shadowy black reflection of the television screen, but not hers.

I can only sense her, and my dick is already twitching at the thought of how much better she must look up close.

My mouth is so dry, I make a hard sound as I try to swallow, catching Partridge’s attention.

“Ah, the man himself. Ben… uh, this is Sophie. Come to clean up around here.”

I stay still, not daring to look at her for the first time while that prick Partridge is here.

I grunt absently instead, rustling a paper or two, crossing my legs and letting out another low sound as I feel fabric stroking me, suddenly wanting her hands in its place instead.

“I got you some shirts, a change of clothes. Deodorant,” he adds, grunting himself as I wave a hand absently, shooing him away.

Wishing he’d fucking leave so I can see my prize.

“Well. I’ll be off,” he finally says, adding, “Sophie? The door will remain locked at all times, from the outside. When you’re done press the button, here. This will tell the agent on the other side to let you out, like this.”

I hear the buzzer and the door clicks open again.

“He’ll have your check and we’ll be in touch when and if we need you again.”

I feel a stab of pain in my heart. I haven’t even seen her yet and he’s already talking about taking her away from me.

“No!” I call out harshly, growling like a cornered beast but still not facing her.

“This place is a god damned mess, I want it cleaned every day. New sheets on the bed, fresh towels. I can’t live like a bum, Partridge.”

“We’ll be in touch,” he clips to Sophie.

Sophie.

I close my eyes and hear her name a hundred different ways in the few seconds it takes for Partridge to leave.

Once the door snaps shut, I can feel the tension in the room.

But it’s not an awkward or bad tension.

It kind of feels like it matches the tension in my pants.

I strain to hear her, still aching to turn and see her, but my heart’s beating so loud I can’t hear myself think.

It feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest.

I look up from my papers, and there she stands right in front of me.

The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life.

I feel my eyes widen, focusing on hers. A deep blue so clear I can see the whole room and the world beyond reflected in them.

The full figure that caught my eye from ten stories up makes me gulp again.

She’s perfect.

Gnawing her lips, I can see she’s nervous,

She’s trembling for god’s sake.

Her own breathing sounding as hard and frantic as mine, and I have to wonder if somehow all the oxygen hasn’t been sucked out of the room.

My eyes move from hers, and down her whole body. I watch her as she tenses, feeling me scan her, broadcasting a sudden feeling of embarrassment, almost shame.

I want to study her tick chest, those child-ready hips, but I don’t want to stare if it’s making her feel-

“Do you always read pages upside down?” she asks, suddenly breaking my train of thought as my eyes snap back into focus on hers.

A slight smile plays on her lips, and glancing down, I can see what I have in my hands is upside down, as well as back to front.

I don’t dare move the other file though. What’s underneath that I’m not sure she’d find so funny.

Or would she?

There’s a light in her eyes, playful and mischievous. And something else.

I don’t have time to cross-examine her, she’s caught me out, and although I’d usually stand, I stay seated and motion towards the chair opposite.

I have to work up some saliva, finding my mouth too dry to even speak properly.

“I’m Ben Slade,” I tell her, watching her, planted to the spot, ignoring the chair and seeming to sway a little at the sound of my voice.

“Sophie,” she squeaks, suddenly looking like a lost child, her mischievous eyes filled with-

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