Bought By The Billionaire

It's hot; stuffy and hot. I load my cleaning cloths and sprays onto the cart and push it along the corridor. It's a high-class hotel and normally it's very comfortable working here, but the air-con isn't working properly and so my daily job of room cleaning is very uncomfortable today. I take the elevator up to my next room, the penthouse suite and unlock the door. It is a stunning room, bright and sunny, and when I cleaned it through the day before, it smelled pleasantly of the occupant, a mixture of expensive aftershave and a musky male scent. The scent still lingered, in stark contrast to my own clammy and sweaty odour. I consider the owner of the aftershave for a moment as I open the window to let in sunshine and fresh air. I saw him leaving a few minutes ago, so I know I am clear to clean the room. He was dressed smart casual, wearing an expensive jacket with a loose linen shirt; perfect in this heat; and tight black jeans cut to flatter his noticeably male physique. He strode down the corridor with a bouquet of beautiful red roses, a briefcase, and a gleam in his eyes. Despite the briefcase, he did not look like a man with work on his mind. The room is clean and tidy, needing almost no work. In the office, I empty a wastebasket by the desk and dust the desktop. I make up the bed in the room I can access. Some of the rooms are locked. I am supposed to do everything—all the work, every time. Vacuum the carpet, clean the bathroom, dust all the surfaces, wipe the windows, but the room is so clean already that I think I can skimp. I decide it is good enough and go to check the bathroom. Again, it is immaculate. Why am I doing this? I am hot, sticky, and tired and working for minimum wage at a job I only took a few days ago to help me through my university studies. Already I hate the work, but I need the money. The shower looks so inviting. Temptation wins. I kick off my shoes and quickly unbutton my tightly cut blouse. I immediately feel better as the cool air washes over my sweaty, glistening breasts. Unhooking my low-cut black bra, I drop it on my blouse and then unclip my hair. It is far too warm to wear my hair loose, but now freed, it cascades red and silky to my waist. Wriggling out of my short skirt takes only a moment, and my moist and sticky panties follow. I turn on the shower and step into the beautifully tiled enclosure. The water feels wonderful on my skin and hair, coursing over my arms, breasts, and belly, taking the heat, sweat, and fatigue with it. I stand, stretching luxuriously in the warm stream, with the needles of water massaging me. There is a click and the sound of a key in the lock. I freeze. Here I am, stark naked, in the shower of one of the hotel guests. Has he brought his date back to the room? Oh, God! What is his girlfriend going to say when she finds a naked woman in her boyfriend's shower? Frantically, I turn off the water and reach for a towel, wrapping it around my naked torso to dry off as quickly as possible. Oh, God! Oh, God. Oh, God... Please don't let him come in here. The bathroom door clicks open and the guy walks in. He has his back to me, but everything about him says pissed off. Has something gone wrong with his date? Still turned away from me, he almost rips off his jacket, hanging it up by the bathrobes. I can see him fiddling irritatedly with his tie as he slides it from around his collar and then hangs it with the jacket. He takes a couple of steps towards the mirror which has misted over from the warm shower. He pauses, apparently noticing the steam and the misting for the first time, and starts wiping the mirror with one hand. As the view clears, he sees me in the reflection, standing behind him, wrapped in a towel in his shower stall. He starts, then whips around, looking at first furious and perhaps alarmed, but then relaxing as he registers my complete harmlessness. "I'm sorry. I was so hot. I'll go now ..." I stammer. "Oh, no need to be so fast," he says, grinning. "Finish your shower. Is there anything you would like to tell me?" "Please don't tell anyone. I'll lose my job." He smiles. "Is that right? Yes, I suppose it wouldn't look good, would it? Maid caught using guest facilities." He steps forward, still smiling. He really is very attractive, with deep blue eyes against tanned skin, and tall. "Are you going to make it worth my while not to tell anyone?" One finger hooks itself around the top of my towel. He tilts his head to one side as he moves still closer, and his other hand takes a curl of my long, wet hair, twiddling it around a finger. "Beautiful hair you have there," he says. "I have to get back to work," I stammer. "I have other rooms to do." "I'll tell the manager I had some extra cleaning for you to do—there's no hurry. I'm sure the hotel would expect you to—service—the guests first ..." The finger tugs ever so gently at my towel. It parts, then slides down to the floor. His eyes, meeting mine, smile as they follow the downwards path of the towel. I vaguely clutch at the damp cloth, but my heart isn't in it, and the towel continues its journey south. "I think you owe me something," he says, and the towel finger wanders downwards between my breasts. I feel I ought to be frightened, but instead, my pulse is beginning to race.