Chapter 4

Lucas

Maggie gazes up at me with those big, gray doe eyes, and she blinks like she might be afraid of Astrid. She’s a difficult woman, but I don’t think she’d ever hurt anyone. “What about her?” Maggie asks.

I grimace at the thought of how Astrid would tear her to shreds.

I scratch the back of my head and break eye contact, groping for the right words. “You know what? It’s complicated, and she’s not even supposed to be here this week, so we’ll talk about it after we sign, if we sign.”

Maggie’s eyebrows knot, but she nods.

“Do you need help getting to your car, or getting a tow?” I offer again.

“No, no, no,” she says, “it’s already been towed. Definitely.”

“Do you need a ride home?”

“I’ve already got one, but thanks.”

Hm. She must have a boyfriend. Maybe some close friend or a roommate, but probably a boyfriend. Or a fiancé, if he’s smart.

“All right, well,” I say, giving her shoulder a platonic pat and squeeze. No zaps. No raging boner. Maybe everything is going to be OK after all. “You get everything taken care of on your end. I’ll leave the front open for you, and I’ll get you a key after that check clears. Just give me two or three days on that. I’m going to spend some time with Maddy. She probably wants some help with her zombies.”

“Her zombies?” Maggie repeats.

“She’s into drawing zombies right now. It’s, ahem, a bit of a dark period,” I explain, clearing my throat uncomfortably. Sometimes I wonder if Astrid and I are to blame for the macabre renderings. “I’ll give you tomorrow’s itinerary when you get back with your things.”

I wish she could start sooner than tomorrow, because I have literally one hundred calls to make, but she does still kind of look like something the cat dragged in, and she needs time to move all her things. I can’t just start working her right off the bat. I’m lucky she even came. I thought Fig was my last chance, and I chased her out with that plastic cup.

I don’t see Maggie much for the rest of the night, though I hear her come and go. I hear her putting her dirty clothes in the washer. I take video of Madison going into a total My Little Pony frenzy, but Charlie never leaves his room, even for dinner. Something has changed for him, and he won’t talk to me about it. “It’s chicken noodle soup with a little bit of ginger. It’s good as hell, honestly,” I promise him from the bottom of the wood staircase.

“I’m not hungry,” Charlie calls.

I used to push him when he got like this, but the reaction was poor. I don’t want to do what was done to me, what worked for me. I want to do what works best for Charlie. He’s not like me. He’s sensitive and soft.

My jaw sets, but I don’t yell. “All right, son. I’m going to leave it warm on the stove for you if you change your mind.”

Silence.

I put Madison to bed at eight o’clock, and I check on Charlie. He’s glued to his laptop. “What are you doing?” I ask, already a hint suspicious.

“Homework,” he replies in a monotone, not looking at me at all.

I glower, but I have to trust him. The screen does show a word processor on it. “All right,” I say and close his door. I head into my room to undress and hop in a hot shower.

I whip my shirt overhead, but as my hands go to the button on my jeans, the bathtub faucet shrills to life and I pause. Charlie wouldn’t use this bathroom; he has his own.

It has to be Maggie.

My throat goes dry, and my dick stiffens. I can’t help it. I didn’t ask for it—in fact, I’m a little surprised, because she’s too young for me. I shouldn’t want her.

Through the bathroom door, I hear the bathtub curtain rake to the side, tinkling like bells.

Her naked body swims to me, even though I don’t want to see it. I have to see it. Her wide, curvaceous hips part the shower steam like a boat moving through waters. I bet she has one of those little dimples right above her ass. I wonder if the water feels so good on her cold skin that she might softly moan to herself. The same kind of moan you give up during foreplay when it’s naughty and you can’t get caught.

I’m at the bathroom door before I even realize it. I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to back away.

What are you doing?

I douse the light and stretch out on my bed to wait for the shower water to stop.

Maggie’s breasts swing in front of my mind’s eye, hot droplets of water slapping them and trickling down, making them so juicy, so edible.

My hand dips past the waistband of my jeans and forms a fist around the head of my cock. He throbs hungrily, and my teeth skim my lower lip. Fuck yeah. Let’s do this. It’s been a while since I felt inspired to let one go in my own bed, much less out of sheer need to relieve pressure.

I buck my hips upward and slide up and down in my own hand, clutching tight.

I dare to picture her pussy, clean-shaven and delicate, as tender and sweet as a slice of mango, tucked between her legs.

My hand pumps harder. I bet she’s tight.

Things come in chaotic flashes as I get closer. She’s bringing everything to a head sooner than I thought she would, sooner than anyone has in a while.

Her eyes glare up at me in passion and pleasure. Her lips pucker around the words “Don’t stop,” which she breathes against my ear. “Oh, yeah,” she coos, and I imagine myself plunging into her, my full length. Up to the hilt. Merciless.

My dick pulses responsively, wanting to slam into her, too.

Shit. She’s just a nubile blonde in your house. It doesn’t mean anything. You don’t even know anything about her. So, she majored in child psychology. So, she doesn’t do drugs. I still don’t know anything about Maggie Marshall.

And I don’t have to.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

It can just be you and me. Stroking in and out. Pressing your tits against the foggy bathroom mirror. Sinking my teeth into your shoulder and feeling the goosebumps spread all down your body. I want to grind on your clit with my middle finger until you come strong and hard, let it course down your shaking legs. I’ll lick it up.

Fuck. Fuuuck.

I’m breathing too hard. I can’t let this be audible, but I’m about to come. The fantasy is too strong. It has control of my mind and my body.

I feel myself buried in her, believe that the walls of her pussy surround my dick, clutching, clenching. Her husky, bashful voice rings in my head: “Just take it, daddy.” She turns her hips up higher, giving me deeper access as I slam her from behind. “Take it how you want it.”

The faucet shrills, and the shower water falls silent. The curtain jingles as it slides back. I see her body clear as day in front of me, even though my eyes are closed. Water traces down her tight little tummy and slithers between her pussy lips. God, I can’t stand to think about that clean pussy, so hot and wet with shower water. How good it must taste. How tight it must be. Only separated by one wall.

I let go with my jaw clamped tightly, forcing myself to be silent. Spurts of cum lash into the T-shirt balled up in my hand, but in my mind, that seed drives deep into Maggie. Fuck, I can’t help it. It’s those eyes, as feminine and thoughtful as a cat’s eyes. And the blond curls and the freckles. I’m fucked.

I let the crumpled T-shirt drop and exhale like a man in trouble, a man with no options.

I can’t fuck the nanny. Astrid would either die or kill me. She’s not harmless when she’s taking her medicine. And it would damage the kids. The nanny is to support them during this time. If I fuck her, it would shatter them. It’s too soon, and she’s a total stranger. She might not even keep the job. So there. It’s decided.

That’s right. You cannot fuck the nanny. She has a boyfriend, and she’s too young for you.

Do not fuck the nanny.