She had an accent. It was a honeyed sound; thick and slow. It was staying in on a winter’s day wrapped up in blankets and sipping tea; warm. Nothing like his brogue that came out cold and raspy when he replied:
“You must be Ms.French.”
She nodded; a visible shiver running down her back.
Of course she feared him, everyone did, and he liked it that way. Of course he did. Nodding he motioned towards the elevator and followed behind the girl when she stepped towards it. He breathed in deep through his nose trying to regain what little composure he had left only to be thrown off again but the scent of her. She smelled like cherry blossoms. It was airy and sweet yet heady and it wrapped around him, easing a tension in his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there. He almost leaned towards her in his attempt to breath in more of the enticing aroma, but he caught himself and favoring his cane heavily he walked in behind her.
After showing her where to insert the key and explaining how his floor could only be accessed with such a key they began their silent elevator ride up. Twenty-five floors worth of her staring at the floor and him at the ceiling, with the occasional chanced glance back at eachother.
She was wearing a black skirt - long enough to cover yet short enough to have him imagining things he really shouldn’t be. Her blouse, a deep blue, was nothing compared to the color of those enchanting eyes of hers but it suited her well and did wonders to accentuate her milky white skin. The stilettos she had donned were the same shade and so tall that should she step any closer to him they would be nearly eye to eye. Her hair, he now noticed, was rather unruly but in the most charming way. It was as though each long ringlet had moved on its own accord creating a mane rather than a hairstyle and he had to resist the urge to run his hand through it.
But what was he thinking? He was not some pre pubescent teenage boy. He was a man, who in his years, had been with a fair amount of women. She was nothing special. Besides, she was young, twenty- seven at most, and he - well - he was twenty years her senior. She would want nothing to do with a man his age. She was to be his maid. Nothing more nothing less. A maid.
After what seemed like an eternity of awkward silence the doors finally slid open and they stepped out straight into the living room, dining room, and kitchen that made up the first floor of his penthouse. And though he couldn’t say that he decorated it all himself, for he had neither the time nor the creativity, he felt a twinge of pride rise up in his chest when he heard her gasp and then turned to find her wide-eyed with mouth agape as she took it all in.
“This place is huge!” she squeals before looking his direction and then clearing her throat and averting her eyes, a pink tinge rising in her cheeks.
He smirked. Looking around, he supposed that it was quite large and the open floor plan only helped...