Castle sex french maid
She falls for Russell. She hated being praised for brainless tasks, as if she were a dog who had sat on command. Neither house nor man resembled his sister Pamela and her home, she with her frosted blond hair and her house with its warm — albeit faux — Mediterranean style and the scattered detritus of three small children. It was obviously the master suite, and Emma wondered at the way Russ had announced the room. The room was as devoid of signs of occupation as the living room, having only one small area where evidence of human life showed itself: Her new employer, Russell Carrick, is the picture of male perfection—his mere presence sends Emma reeling. The kitchen is this way. He had brown hair and stood a little under six feet tall, broad-shouldered and trim.
But then his gaze brushed quickly down her body before he turned his attention back to the half-furnished room. From the corner of her eye she saw two men appear at the front door of the house. Neither house nor man resembled his sister Pamela and her home, she with her frosted blond hair and her house with its warm — albeit faux — Mediterranean style and the scattered detritus of three small children. Super Emma had her hair professionally trimmed once a month, her makeup subtly and flawlessly applied, her clothes chosen with impeccable, conservatively arty taste, and she was involved with a cultured, intelligent, sophisticated man who treated her like the precious flower she occasionally wanted to pretend to be. She blamed evolution as well, though, for making her just picky and cautious enough to avoid acting on the urge: She had followed him into the master bath. Russ gave her an assessing look, then seemed to dismiss the issue and led the way into the house. Pleasure to meet you. Pamela, whose house Emma also cleaned, had told her that Russ was in software. As she struggled to hoist her canister vacuum out of the back, the wind tossed her dark pony-tailed hair in clinging tendrils across her face and into her lip gloss, where it stuck. Her new employer, Russell Carrick, is the picture of male perfection—his mere presence sends Emma reeling. She tried to pull it out and, distracted, bumped into the broom, both broom and mop falling clattering to the pavement, knocking over a bucket on the way. He had regular features that would be unremarkable except for the intensity behind them: Emma pushed away from the car and stood straight. He had brown hair and stood a little under six feet tall, broad-shouldered and trim. Not that she was one to talk, Emma reminded herself as he led the way to the bathroom suite. Someday, she might design houses and buildings as remarkable as this one instead of just clean them. He scowled at her for reasons unknown and released her hand, then turned to his friend. Then she popped the hatchback and got out, going round to fetch her buckets of cleaning supplies, sponge mop, broom, and all the miscellanea that housecleaning demanded. She wanted to be actively moving forward on her career path when she next got involved with a man: The room was as devoid of signs of occupation as the living room, having only one small area where evidence of human life showed itself: Russ muttered something unintelligible and lead the way. She hated being praised for brainless tasks, as if she were a dog who had sat on command. Emma chewed her upper lip, eyes flitting between the two men as a silence descended and they seemed to be waiting for her to comment on this piece of information as if, as a representative of womanhood, she could settle the dispute. Make sure everyone is ready for that conference call:
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