by Amy Brent
Oh yes. Were we ever really going to avoid this?
As I feel his chest under his cotton T-shirt, it suddenly occurs to me that I want to taste it too. I want to taste the glory of the muscles rippling there. Stripping off his shirt brings me face to face with his six-pack. Lips out, tongue swirling, I coat them with my oral adoration. I kiss and nibble my way in crisscrosses across his torso, like the weave of an intricate quilt.
As they go lower and lower, his breathing intensifies. His fingers grip my hair. All kissing, all feeling, all roads lead to his dick.
If Clayton thinks I’m heading there, and my lips think they’re heading there, then what exactly am I doing if not heading there? Why not make his hottest fantasy come true?
Once I reach the base of his torso, where his jeans block me from his skin, I look up.
Clayton’s whole face is more mesmerized than I’ve ever seen it. His lower lip is drooped and his blue eyes are half-lidded. That is a look of one thing—complete and utter desire.
In my hair, his hand pats my head.
“Yeah?” My sultry voice purrs. “You’d like that?”
His breath grows even more ragged as he undoes his jeans.
The bulge of his boner presses insistently against the fabric of his boxers, waiting to get out.
When I finally pull down the briefs, his whole body slumps, as if he’s been waiting this whole day for me to do just this. His thick cock rises to meet me.
I dip my head to it, open my mouth, and freeze.
I close my eyes, trying to remember the web article I read years ago about how you’re supposed to perform a blow job. The main thing is you’re supposed to put your mouth over it, right? And something about the tongue. No teeth. That much I’m pretty sure about.
I aim another glance up to see Clayton reaching for my face.
Wrenching myself away and sitting on the couch, I say, “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
There are several horrible beats of silence, then the sound of Clayton doing up his jeans.
“I understand,” he finally says in a strained voice. “I shouldn’t have let things get this far. As I’ve drunk a fair bit of wine, I can’t drive you home at the moment. But come morning, I’ll get you home straightaway. And you don’t have to worry; I’ll leave you a good review.”
He says all this in a voice completely void of emotion, like he’s reading off a script. Is he really giving up that easily?
When I turn to him, I see the effect my mere look has on him. He licks his lips and bites down as if to physically stop himself from lunging for what he wants.
I get up and step toward him, and his determined scowl droops.
“Stevie…” he says in a tormented voice that tells me I’ve won already.
My lips are about to hit his when I turn away.
“No,” I say in a low voice. “You don’t understand.”
I flop back onto the couch, my gaze on my black socks. Don’t tell him, my mind urges me. But if my mouth doesn’t tell him now, my body will surely give it away later. I have to.
I tilt my head up and look at him out of lowered eyes.
“I’m a virgin.”
Chapter 3: Clayton
A what? No fucking way. Tell me I heard that wrong.
My eyes trace her for a telltale twinkle in her eye or a naughty smirk. But the more I look at her, the more it makes sense: the heedless almost girlish way she flirted with me, the bashful way she couldn’t quite throw herself into it, and even just now, gaping at my dick as if it were a strange apparatus she didn’t know the first thing about.
It must be true. Worse than that is who she is: my son’s nanny. How screwed up is that?
I turn away from her, my jaw clenching so much it feels like I’m going to grind my teeth into powder. I’m no better than my dad, just a horny bastard who only thinks of himself. I was about to do the unthinkable with a girl who’s a virgin on top of everything. Some girls would be absolutely brutalized by the experience, especially when things end how they always end.
I haven’t been single these past few years for a lack of meeting eligible women. Pretty, kind, caring—I’ve met them all. I’m just not the kind of guy who does relationships. I’m not the good, caring type. As eligible as some of those women were, they usually reached their expiration date right around the end of our first date or two together, if that.
“I should go then?”
Her icy voice disrupts my reverie. All I can do is manage a half-conscious nod.
What am I going to do now? That she can’t keep being Winston’s nanny is obvious. But I can’t bear to fire her right now after everything that happened. The poor girl is probably reeling.
The spot on my leather couch where Stevie was sitting is now empty.
“Shit,” I mutter to myself.
That’s Clayton Matthews for you—gets so lost in thought about what to do about a female that he completely loses track of said female.
A quick search around the house reveals that Stevie left. I only agreed in a dazed thoughtlessness without actually meaning it, but she clearly didn’t know that.
Rushing outside, I find her climbing into a cab without looking back. I call out to her just as the door slams shut.
--
The next morning, I awake agitated.
Whatever room of my house I walk into, I’m like a polar bear in a cage. I can’t seem to sit still. I check my phone obsessively to see if she’s responded to any of my messages. Then I try to call her again. Really, it shouldn’t matter. I just want to see her so I can officially dismiss her and apologize, right?
Winston doesn’t help things.
“Where’s Stevie?” he asks every time he gets bored of an activity, whether it’s Lego or his mini dinosaurs, which usually rounds out to be thirty minutes or so.
“She’s not working today” is all I have the heart to tell him.
As much as this sucks, it’s for the best. There’s no way I want to get into that kind of situation with my son’s nanny. Not only is it a conflict of interest, but it’s just plain morally wrong.
By lunchtime, I’m just about ready to wear a hole through the floor. Thankfully, my mom is willing to watch Winston while I meet my old friend Philip for lunch to figure out things.
At lunch, Philip is dressed in his usual debonair attire—a full pinstriped suit—and sports a slightly amused smile.
There’s usually a whole swathe of reasons his smile carries that playful tilt. Today it’s because of what Bad Father of the Century, yours truly, is telling him.
“So what do I do?” I finally ask after I’ve given him the five-minute rundown of just how much I fucked up with Stevie last night.
Philip tilts his head one way and then another. He picks up his water glass and swishes around the ice cubes before emptying a quarter of it in his mouth. He sets it down and delivers me a piercing stare.
“Seriously? You fuck her.”
Midway through sipping my drink, I practically spit it out in shock. Philip cracks up while I heave to regain my breath.
“Damn. You should’ve seen your face, man!”
When I recover enough to deliver him a scathing glare, he spreads his hands on the table.
“Come on. You had to know I was kidding.”
I only deepen my glare. Really, I should’ve known Philip, with his joking ways, was fucking with me, but a part of me hopes there is some way I can rationalize seeing Stevie again and seeing where things take us.
“What I have to ask is, why are you even asking me?” Philip eyes me curiously. “You obviously have to fire the woman.”
“Winston gets along with her so well,” I say wistfully, flicking a hopeful glance his way. “And then—”
He smiles knowingly although he’s playing innocent.
“And then?”
“Can I see her again?”
Phillip’s blond brows lower in a severely somber expression. “Seriously?”
“What!�
� I protest, slurping down the rest of my water in one hasty gulp. “I don’t know. There’s just something about her…”
“Something about her, which is that you haven’t fucked her,” he points out.
I sigh, my gaze settling on a stone angel on the wall. It’s grinning its fat cherubic cheeks mockingly at me.
“So that’s it then.”
“There, there,” Philip says, delivering me a reassuring pat with his big hairy hand. “I’ll take you out clubbing next weekend. You can get another new nanny at home with Winston by then. Just get an old fat one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, not even hearing what he said.
I’m trying to figure out exactly how to word the dismissal I’m going to give Stevie and how to get her to come over in the first place.
--
That night, after about the seventh call, Stevie picks up.
“Yeah?”
That is not the voice of a woman who’s going to agree with what you want, a knowing voice in my head indicates helpfully.
Ignoring it, I ask, “Could you come over? I just want to talk.”
“You can’t just do this over the phone?” she says coolly.
“I’d rather not.”
Silence, then: “That’s unfortunate then.”
My frown deepens. Why does Stevie have to be so fucking difficult right now?
“Listen,” I tell her, “you have two choices. One, you come over and we talk things out and I leave you alone. Two, you keep avoiding me and ignoring my calls and I don’t stop until you block my phone number.”
Silence.
“I never mentioned how I win out in business, did I?” I say.
More silence. Is it a silence of utter disinterest?
“For my toy idea, I basically harassed all the toy stores until they took a few as samples to show to kids and see how they’d do. But I think harassing might be too weak a word actually. I literally called the head of every store in Ontario and then the US too. Each of them probably got an average of six calls at least before, finally, one agreed just to get me off his back.”
Since she still hasn’t responded, I clarify. “I win out in business by persistence. Pure, merciless persistence. A persistence I apply in all areas of my life.
There’s a longer silence. Then she says, “Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
And in twenty, there she is, standing on my doorstep. She’s already glaring, her hands on her thick hips.
“Stevie…”
My voice trails off and gets away from me.
The way her lower lip is jutted out, even fuller than normal, makes me want to kiss it. And then there’s the whole issue of the pale teal shorts she’s wearing. They appear to be made of terry cloth, and the drawstring is already undone…
I wrench my gaze away. That’s not why I invited her here.
“Will you come in?” I ask in a colder voice than intended.
She doesn’t move.
“Just say it,” she says.
She’s right, really. I need to get this over with. I need to say the right words so I don’t give my mind time to trick me into saying the wrong ones—or my body time to take over completely.
Right now, if I said what I really wanted to say, it would be “come here” in a completely different tone and for a completely different reason.
“Just come inside,” I say, softly this time. “So we can talk.”
She stands there a good half a minute, as if considering arguing further. Finally, she glides inside without a word or even a look at me.
She scans my house. Perhaps she’s noticing it for the first time now that she realizes she’ll never be back. Maybe she’s taking in the curved, ornate railings and balustrades that I designed myself, the glossy wooden flooring, every picture and vase and last detail that I oversaw personally.
Maybe it’s a bit much, but it was one of the few things that kept me sane after Helena ran off the second time, leaving me with a baby to boot. Control—that’s what I like.
Then why am I leading Stevie into a situation where I’ve proven to have anything but?
I pause. Hell, I’ve thoughtlessly led us back into the same living room where it happened. Am I actually going to sweep my hand toward the same couch that Stevie sat on after we kissed and almost went further? Where she looked at me with despondent eyes?
No. Instead, I’m the one who sits down, and I look up at her as I speak.
“I’m really sorry about what happened. It was totally out of bounds, unprofessional, and—”
Stevie kisses the words out of my mouth.
At the rush of her hands dragging over my skin, every nerve in my body spikes into hyper-awareness.
Oh fuck, is my last thought before those get tossed aside like my shirt.
Our bodies know what to do. They pick up where we left off last time, with Stevie smearing my six-pack with sucking kisses
My hands are the most eager to continue what we started. They slide down her soft shoulders, down her sweet arms, down to her torso. Then they change direction.
Now it’s all about up. Up under her shirt. Up her soft navel over the full, generous sweep of her waist. Up further.
When they reach where her bra should be, a groan actually falls out of my lips. They’re bare.
The last wisps of control leave me. My hands circle round the bare flesh joyously. They massage and knead and delight in the firm mounds. Her nipples are puffy, for now. They won’t be when my fingers are finished savoring them.
While my hands enjoy her bust, my lips suckle and twist hers. Our tongues are engaged in a sort of dance. In there, over there. A flick, a lick. I dip in a bit too far. Mmmmmm.
So the game is on. Although as my hands slip down further to what this has all really been leading toward, we both know who will come out on top, literally and figuratively: me.
When my hands settle on her ass, I’m pleased to find that the material of her shorts is just as thin as it looks. When I give those ass cheeks a squeeze, I feel her thong through them.
My boner digs into the side of my thigh. Christ, what this woman does to me…
I massage and stroke her shorts right off her. They drop to the ground somewhere. I have no idea where exactly because right now I’m inches away from the sexiest thing I can remember seeing.
Clad in only her thin T-shirt and thong, which has nothing “good girl” about it, is my plans for tonight: Stevie Pierce.
Oh, how I’m going to pierce that tonight…
But I savor the moment. I don’t want to rush this. I want to soak up every bit of goodness it holds.
I stroke my fingers lazily along the line of her thong, all around her waist, then down into the crack between her ass. I grab and massage the firm yet supple flesh there, my boner blooming bigger all the while.
Meanwhile, Stevie is moaning into my neck. She must be crazy wet by now.
I’m struck by an irresistible urge to know just how turned on she really is. Slipping my finger down, I freeze up in shock. She’s so drenched, some of the wetness has started oozing down her upper thighs. Oh yes.
As I draw away and take in Stevie’s utterly helpless face, it occurs to me. She doesn’t just want this. She needs it.
I strip off my jeans. Then I stride around her one final time. Behind her, I enclose her in my arms and growl into her ear. “You’re goddamn beautiful, you know that?”
My words send a shiver of longing through her. Twisting her lips to me, she whispers, “Clayton…”
At the uncertainty in her voice, I stiffen. Fuck no. She’s not going to stop now that we’re so close to the finish, is she? Should we?
But the next second, a deliciously devilish smile flits over her face.
“More please.”
Never have two such mundane words sounded so sweet.
I waste no time. Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her straight to my bedroom. The stairs creak a little as we creep up them, and we giggle like high schoolers
. I fling her onto my bed like a predator about to finish off its prey.
I close the door behind me and pounce on her.
We’re a tumble of limbs and wants and sensations. Her panties come off of their own accord. It feels like I kiss every inch of her. When I pin her to the bed and nuzzle her with just how hard she’s made me, we both moan.
She mumbles something inaudible, and I say, “What was that?”
“More please,” she says in an even more pleading voice than the last time.
I’m all too happy to comply. With my hand against her ass, I slowly start burrowing my way into her pussy. Immediately, pleasure missiles through me.
Oh fuck. Have I ever been inside anything this tight? Already, my dick is almost as hard as it can be. Gritting my teeth, I shake off the overwhelmed feeling. No fucking way am I making a fool of myself with this girl.
I tear my gaze from her appealing form as I edge myself in deeper. I do so with a series of gradual, slow thrusts. A little bit in, a little bit in, then a little bit in some more. The farther I go, the better it feels. Our bodies grow more and more locked.
All of Stevie is gasping for it. So, finally, I give it to her. One final slam sends her yelling.
I pause.
“You okay?”
Her eyes snap open, and the word that dribbles off her tongue bolsters my erection: “More.”
I waste no time being gentle. I stuff her with more. I plug her with more. I stab her over and over with more to her heart’s content.
Both of our bodies are fused with more. We’re moaning more, and finally, when I have drilled her with everything I’ve got, we’re released of more.
She comes in a series of cried-out shakes, as if she can’t quite believe what her body is doing to her. When she finally flops down, I fall to the side. Both of us are spent.
After a few minutes, she draws away out of my arms. I hear shuffling and turn to see her hopping off the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving before you can fire me,” she says in a bitter stranger’s voice.
Chapter 4: Stevie
His silence after what I said is my answer.
