Chapter 17 Blackmail (2)

The knock jolted me like a bucket of ice water, snapping me out of my haze. My hand stalled, slick with lotion, and my dick throbbed in complaint as I yanked it away. “Fuck,” I muttered, fumbling with my phone to pause the video—Claire’s lips froze mid-slide, Jerry’s groan cut off sharp. My chest was still heaving, my legs shaky, but I scrambled to pull my jeans back up, wincing as the zipper scraped over my still-hard bulge. Whoever was out there wasn’t waiting—another knock, harder this time, rattled the flimsy door. I wiped my hands on my shirt, heart pounding, and stumbled over, half-expecting Jerry’s fist or Claire’s panicked face on the other side. I swung the door open, ready to bullshit my way out of whatever this was, and—holy shit. It was Mary. My jaw damn near hit the floor. Mary, the maid who worked the upstairs rooms, stood there smirking, one hip cocked like she owned the place. I’d seen her around, sure—quiet, mousy little thing with a dust rag and a shy nod—but this? This wasn’t the Mary I knew. Her uniform hugged her like a second skin, the black fabric shaped so tight it outlined every curve, the hem chopped short enough to flash a sliver of thigh that made my mouth go dry. She’d turned that drab maid getup into something straight out of a wet dream, and the way she was looking at me, all sly and knowing, said she damn well knew it.