I can’t sleep.
I roll over and look at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It’s 2:14 a.m. I’ve been tossing and turning for most of the night, my mind replaying this afternoon with Mr. Hayes. Well, more like replaying the conversation we had on the phone the night before and then him laughing this afternoon.
I tried to imagine the situation when he called me. He sounded calm, tired maybe. His voice was deeper and raspier than usual. I was confused when I saw his name pop up on my phone, knowing it was well past Eleanor’s bedtime. I enjoyed the brief moments that we talked, though, like we were just two friends catching up.
I huff, tossing the covers off and giving up on actually getting any sleep. I stretch my arms overhead and decide that maybe a snack will help me reset. I stand up and put on my slippers, questioning if I should also grab some pants but ultimately decide against it. My oversized t-shirt is long enough it covers halfway down my thighs and it’s the middle of the night, so nobody will see me.
I open the door and glance down the hall before walking out of my room and down the stairs to the kitchen. I open the pantry door and don’t bother turning on the light. There’s enough glow from the moon hitting the kitchen windows that I can make out what’s in front of me.
I spy a Cheez-It box and pop it open, reaching my hand inside, grabbing a handful, and shoving them into my mouth. I turn to exit the pantry and find a small dish to pour some in when a shadowy figure crosses the doorway, and then the light flicks on, blinding me.
I shield my eyes, my mouth dropping open just as a scream is about to erupt from my throat. But before I can make a peep, Mr. Hayes’ strong arms are enveloping me as his hand clamps down over my mouth.
“It’s just me,” he whispers against my cheek, his warm breath fanning across my face. Suddenly I realize he’s shirtless. The heat from his bare chest pressed against my body sends my senses into overdrive. I feel my heartbeat double in pace as I slowly swallow down the mouthful of crackers and he removes his hand.
He steps back. Instantly, I miss the connection.
“You okay?” he asks, running his hand through his mussed hair, a curl flopping down partly over one eye.
Oh my God. My ovaries feel like they just exploded as I take in a shirtless Graham Hayes, complete with low-slung pajama bottoms that expose the deep V cut and dark trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. I know I’m staring but I can’t help it.
His defined chest is peppered with dark hair. I love hair on a man’s chest. His body has the muscular, lean look of an athlete without being overly bulky like a gym bro.
Dammit, now I know exactly what’s beneath those bespoke suits and pressed shirts.
“Yes, you just scared me.” I place my hand on my chest, willing my heart to calm down.
“Sorry about that. Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, leaning against the doorjamb so I’m trapped in this tiny room with him. I nod my head.
Dammit, a house this big and the pantry couldn’t be double this size? I feel like I’m being interrogated, a bright light in my eyes.
He drags his own eyes down my body now, agonizingly slow. He reaches his hand up to his face, running his finger along his bottom lip as he studies me, and I’d give anything to know what’s behind those dark eyes right now.
He pushes himself off from the doorway and takes a step toward me. For some reason, I take a step backward. He notices and steps closer. I too step back again. We repeat this little dance till my back hits the shelves and I drop the box of crackers at my feet.
He stands centimeters apart from me, towering over me as he looks down. Slowly he reaches up his hooked finger, resting it just beneath my chin as he tips it upward.
“Why are you scared of me?” he finally says, barely above a whisper. I don’t dare speak—I don’t even blink or breathe.
He removes his finger from my chin, slowly dragging it down my neck as he wraps his fingers around the base of my throat.
“So delicate,” he says, but I don’t think he realizes he’s saying the words out loud. I don’t know what to do with my hands. My arms hang at my sides like dead fish.
I feel his other hand now as he slowly drags his fingertips up my bare thigh. My breath catches and I’m afraid it will ruin the moment, but he doesn’t stop. I don’t know what he’s doing but frankly I’m not about to refuse.
He grabs the hem of my shirt, lifting it just high enough to reveal my pale-pink panties. His eyes drop from where his hand rests around my throat to the top of my legs. His tongue darts out when he sees my panties and I can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows.
He fists my shirt in his hand, closing his eyes tightly like he’s in pain as his forehead gently rests against mine for a brief second.
“Fuck—the things I would do to you.”
He mutters the words just as he releases my shirt and throat and steps back, looking at me like I’ve somehow just burned him. He runs both hands through his hair and my eyes fall down to just below his waist where I see the outline of his growing manhood. I dart my eyes back upward, but he turns and walks out of the pantry without another word.
I slowly sink down to the floor, my mouth hanging open in confusion and shock as I absentmindedly grab the crackers and shove another handful into my mouth.
“What was that?” I whisper the words to myself as I try to make sense of what just happened.
I feel giddy, turned on, sexy—all of it. Instantly, I regret not making a move. What would he have done if I had reached out and touched him? If I’d reached up onto my tippy-toes and kissed him?
I put the box away and quietly make my way back up to my room, throwing myself on my bed as I lie back and let my mind fantasize how that interaction would have ended if things had gone further.
I slip my fingers into my panties and feel wetness already soaking through them just from the few seconds of that interaction.
This man just might completely and utterly destroy me.
8
GRAHAM
I should have kissed her.
No. I shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have even looked at her.
And what the hell was I thinking muttering those thoughts out loud. At least I didn’t actually let slip what was running through my head—images of dropping to my knees and burying my face in her sweet, wet pussy.
I’ve spent the better part of the last two days replaying that little moment in the pantry over and over again in my head. I made sure the next morning I was gone to the office downtown long before Margot was awake and I made sure when I came home, I shut myself in my office and tiptoed around my own damn house like a coward just to avoid her.
What the hell was I thinking?
Clearly, I wasn’t, but in that moment, I felt completely helpless and defenseless against my own desires to reach out and feel her. It’s like every little crumb of interaction between us fuels this burning desire in me to take her, to claim her.
I stare out the window of my high-rise office. The cars below me look like toys, the people scurrying through the streets of Chicago like ants.
I know that if I don’t get a handle on this craving, I’m going to snap and do something that will fuck everything up. Despite how much she might annoy me and despite now having a cat in my house because of her, I can’t risk losing her as a nanny. She’s good for Eleanor. Bridgette, the last nanny, was efficient, but she didn’t have the connection that Margot has. When I watch Margot with Eleanor, it’s like what I imagined it would have been like seeing her own mother with her.