The first time I noticed him watching me, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was just another cleaning job, another quiet house, another weekday morning. But he was there. And that was different. I walked in with my usual kit—cleaning supplies in one hand, water bottle in the other—and there he was, sitting at the dining table with his laptop open. He glanced up when I entered, polite and reserved as always, but there was something else in his eyes this time. A flicker, a hesitation. He cleared his throat and said, “Morning, Jenny. I’m working from home today, so just… do your thing. I’ll stay out of your way.” Simple enough. I nodded, set my stuff down, and got to work. I wasn’t dressed for attention—just black leggings and a fitted T-shirt, hair pulled into a loose bun. No bra. It wasn’t a big deal; comfort mattered more than anything else when you’re scrubbing floors and dusting shelves. But as I moved through the living room, crouching to pick up stray socks or wiping down surfaces, I started to feel it—his gaze. At first, I thought I was imagining it. He was bent over his laptop, typing away, but every so often, I’d catch him looking. Just for a second, just a quick glance when I bent over or stretched to reach something. It wasn’t overt, wasn’t creepy—just… there. Then I got down on my hands and knees to scrub under the coffee table, and the air shifted. I could feel it, a quiet tension settling over the room. I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was—still sitting on the couch, laptop long forgotten, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at me. Not just at me. At my ass. His eyes were locked on me like he couldn’t help himself, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. And then I noticed something else—the way he shifted in his seat, adjusting his legs, trying to hide it. But it was too late. I saw the bulge in his pants, the way his jeans strained against it. My cheeks burned, but I didn’t say anything. I just kept cleaning, pretending I hadn’t noticed. But the whole time, I could feel his eyes on me, hot and heavy, like he was memorizing every movement. When I finished and headed for the door, he stood up—unusual for him—and followed me. “Thanks again,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Seriously.” The way he looked at me then, holding eye contact a beat too long, made something inside me stir. I nodded, grabbed my things, and said I’d see him next week. But as I walked to my car, my heart was racing. I couldn’t stop thinking about that look, about the way he’d stared at me like I was something he couldn’t resist. It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a moment, just a glance. But it lingered, like a spark waiting to catch fire. Two days later, he called me. “Jenny,” his voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a subtle urgency. “Can you come by tomorrow? I know it’s not your usual day, but I’ll pay extra. It’s… a bit of a rush.” I hesitated. He’d just had his house cleaned. But the offer was good, and I wasn’t about to turn down extra money. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there.” The next morning, I arrived to find him waiting at the door, a smile on his face that was almost… eager. “Morning,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.” I nodded, setting my things down, and got to work. But this time, something was different. He wasn’t at the dining table pretending to work. He was everywhere. Watching me, following me, always just a step behind. And every time I turned around, I caught him looking at me like I was the most interesting thing in the room. It was crazy. But what happened next was even crazier.

I noticed him watching me while I was cleaning his house, his gaze lingering on me in a way that made me feel self-conscious. He called me back two days later for another cleaning job, even though it wasn't my usual day. This time, he followed me around the house, always just a step behind, and looked at me like I was the most interesting thing in the room.

The first time I noticed him watching me, it wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was just another cleaning job, another quiet house, another weekday morning. But _he_ was there. And that was different.  

I walked in with my usual kit—cleaning supplies in one hand, water bottle in the other—and there he was, sitting at the dining table with his laptop open. He glanced up when I entered, polite and reserved as always, but there was something else in his eyes this time. A flicker, a hesitation. He cleared his throat and said, “Morning, Jenny. I’m working from home today, so just… do your thing. I’ll stay out of your way.”  

Simple enough. I nodded, set my stuff down, and got to work.  

I wasn’t dressed for attention—just black leggings and a fitted T-shirt, hair pulled into a loose bun. No bra. It wasn’t a big deal; comfort mattered more than anything else when you’re scrubbing floors and dusting shelves. But as I moved through the living room, crouching to pick up stray socks or wiping down surfaces, I started to _feel_ it—his gaze.  

At first, I thought I was imagining it. He was bent over his laptop, typing away, but every so often, I’d catch him looking. Just for a second, just a quick glance when I bent over or stretched to reach something. It wasn’t overt, wasn’t creepy—just… there.  

Then I got down on my hands and knees to scrub under the coffee table, and the air shifted. I could feel it, a quiet tension settling over the room. I glanced over my shoulder, and there he was—still sitting on the couch, laptop long forgotten, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at me.  

Not just at me. At my _ass_.  

His eyes were locked on me like he couldn’t help himself, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. And then I noticed something else—the way he shifted in his seat, adjusting his legs, trying to hide it. But it was too late. I saw the bulge in his pants, the way his jeans strained against it.  

My cheeks burned, but I didn’t say anything. I just kept cleaning, pretending I hadn’t noticed. But the whole time, I could feel his eyes on me, hot and heavy, like he was memorizing every movement.  

When I finished and headed for the door, he stood up—unusual for him—and followed me. “Thanks again,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Seriously.”  

The way he looked at me then, holding eye contact a beat too long, made something inside me stir. I nodded, grabbed my things, and said I’d see him next week.  

But as I walked to my car, my heart was racing. I couldn’t stop thinking about that look, about the way he’d stared at me like I was something he couldn’t resist. It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a moment, just a glance. But it lingered, like a spark waiting to catch fire.  

Two days later, he called me.  

“Jenny,” his voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a subtle urgency. “Can you come by tomorrow? I know it’s not your usual day, but I’ll pay extra. It’s… a bit of a rush.”  

I hesitated. He’d just had his house cleaned. But the offer was good, and I wasn’t about to turn down extra money. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there.”  

The next morning, I arrived to find him waiting at the door, a smile on his face that was almost… eager.  

“Morning,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”  

I nodded, setting my things down, and got to work. But this time, something was different. He wasn’t at the dining table pretending to work. He was _everywhere_. Watching me, following me, always just a step behind.  

And every time I turned around, I caught him looking at me like I was the most interesting thing in the room.  

It was crazy. But what happened next was even crazier.

A reserved, single man hires a part-time house cleaner who catches him stealing glances and finds him aroused by her presence. The cleaner, a woman who typically works unnoticed, must navigate the tension of his unexpected attention and the implications of their new dynamic.

He got hard while I was on my knees cleaning his floor

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