Seeing her, feeling her come on my dick is one of the sweetest things in the world. I’m fucking lost in the moment, in the dreamy expression on her face as she comes down slowly, her tight pussy still milking my cock, her legs wrapped around me, trembling.

Fucking hell, she’s beautiful.

A memory tries to distract me, choke me up—but I’m riding a razor-sharp edge between pain and pleasure, my body taut and clenched tight, about to explode.

That’s how I feel, that’s how my dick feels. Explosive. Contained in a cage for too long, kept in a dark cell, and now…

Now I’m about to fucking come and fuck knows how I’ll survive it.

She moans again, pulling my thoughts away from the waiting pit of writhing blackness, and my body’s back in the game. No need for conscious thought. My hips are pistoning, my ass clenching, my dick thrusting in her sweet heat, and I lose myself once more in the sensation.

In the illusion.

Setting her down on the counter, I lift her legs higher, curl them around my waist as I pound into her harder. Every muscle in my body is locked tight, all the tension of the past hours catching up with me, demanding release.

She’s holding on to my shoulders, dark hair spilling around her face like a cloud. Her head falls back, my thrusting lifting her off the counter, and she’s spread out underneath me like a dream, tits heaving, mouth open. A dream come true in the faint light coming through the door, so damn sexy, giving herself up to me, her pussy gripping me so tight.

So fucking tight, oh fuck…

Dimly I’m aware that I don’t want to come yet, don’t want this to end, this moment of pure, mindless need and pleasure that’s suspended in time.

Her thighs clench around my waist, her pussy pulses around me. She’s about to come again, and the realization sends another rush of heat into my dick. Holy fuck, I can’t hold back much longer.

But I want her coming with me.

Releasing her leg, I reach blindly between us, finding her clit and pressing. She tenses, her grip on my cock tight like a vise, her breath coming in stuttered little puffs.

I rub her clit and thrust deeper, faster, giving it to her hard and she starts to come. I feel it in the shudder going through her body, hear it in her low cry. It echoes through me, that shock of pleasure, and my control snaps. I’m rutting like an animal, grunting and growling.

Giving up all pretense at being civilized, at trying to find my way back to the world. Giving in. I’m gone, slumped over her, my dick spasming, spilling into the condom, into her heat.

My hands slam on the counter, to avoid crushing her. My heart is hammering its way out of my chest. My teeth are still gritting with the violence of my release, my muscles twitching, still unsure if to relax or cramp again.

“Tay…” She’s soft and warm underneath me, her legs trembling around my waist, her scent musky and sweet, wrapping me up like a hug.

So tempting to take it, relax into it, fucking let go for a moment.

“Matt, can you…?” She pushes at me.

Fuck, am I crushing her? Gripping the condom at the base of my dick, I carefully pull out as her legs begin to slide off my hips.

Letting go of my dick, I grab her legs to stop her from falling down to the floor and settle her on the counter. I turn toward the living room door to remove the condom and throw it into the trash.

And that’s when I see it.

Blood on the condom.

Not much, but still. It takes me a long moment to process the meaning of his, and when it does, I spin back toward her.

For fuck’s sake. “Tell me this wasn’t your first goddamn time?”

She says nothing, turning her face away, her cheeks red.

Son of a bitch. Fucking goddamn son of a bitch.

Shaking my head, I tie off the condom with shaking hands, chuck it into the trash and wipe my face on the back of my hand, my pulse roaring in my ears.

No idea why I’m so motherfucking pissed. This—me fucking her, her opening up so sweetly—doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe that’s why. It doesn’t mean anything. Not to me. It’s just a fuck.

And it shouldn’t mean anything to her, either, but Christ, her first time? Like that, on a kitchen counter, in the dark, with me pounding into her like I have demons riding at my heels?

“Go home,” I tell her, my voice like gravel.

“Matt…” Her voice is broken down the middle. I don’t wanna hear. Don’t wanna see her tears.

That’s what I keep telling myself, though I can’t help a moment of weakness, that something I always feel around her. Lifting my hand, I touch her face, swipe my thumb through her hot tears.

My own eyes burn.

But I can’t. I fucking can’t.

“Just go home.” Jerking my hand away, I pull up my pants. I pick up her clothes from the floor and pile them on the counter beside her.

Then I turn and go, getting the hell out of the kitchen, starting up the stairs.

This was a fucking huge mistake. Fucking my nanny, a girl who never slept with anyone before, a girl… who isn’t Emma.

I barely manage not to slam the door of my bedroom shut, not to wake the kids, but I slam my fist into the wall, regardless, needing an outlet.

Fuck calm. Fuck trying. Fuck letting go even for five minutes. It’s not working. Reality always comes back and screws me over.

I should never have let her walk into my house and my life. Deep in my gut I knew it from the start. She’s not Emma, but I fucking want her, and she tugs at heartstrings I thought were dead and gone.

But that’s not an issue anymore. I just bet that after tonight, after I left her naked in my kitchen and walked out, she’s never coming back.

And why the hell does the thought feel like a punch to my gut? She’d be right not to. It’d only be fair.

* * *

By the time I finally give up on sleep and head back downstairs to grab a stiff drink and my smokes, she’s gone from the kitchen. From the house.

It’s so damn empty.

My face hurts from the punch Ross gave me. My head aches. My heart smarts.

All par for the course. No use complaining.

And who would I complain to, huh? Suck it up, Matt. Reality, remember?

My thoughts chase each other, and I’m starting to work myself into a panic about tomorrow.

If Octavia is a no show, what will I do with the kids? Drop them off at Dolly’s again? They hate it there, and Dolly—or Holly?—doesn’t have time for them. Doesn’t really care, and that’s the goddamn truth.

Not like Octavia does. My kids… I’ve never seen them as happy as since Octavia started looking after them. They don’t cry so much. They eat their food. They laugh more. And Mary’s night terrors have become less frequent.

Why was I so damn stupid and I went at Octavia like a bull on steroids, without asking first? Without thinking. She’s just eighteen, for fuck’s sake. Should I have guessed she was a damn virgin?

Emma hadn’t been at her age. Loads of girls aren’t.

She said she wanted it, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind. Wanted you.

Yeah, and now she sure is regretting it. If she thought fucking her would change me, change what I’ve become…

There’s no way back to what I once was.

I take a long drag from the bottle, then suck on my cig. Same place as always, on the porch, staring out at the dark night.

Again wondering what the hell I think I’m doing here.

Maybe it’s time I admitted defeat. Take the kids back to their grandma and hit the road alone, until I find an answer—or the end.

Whichever comes first.

* * *

I can’t find Cole.

Mary is playing in the living room, I’m running late, there’s no sign of Octavia—shocker, yeah—and no sign of Cole.

No panic, I tell myself. Don’t you fucking panic.

He’s somewhere inside the house. Has to be. I’d left the two of them eating breakfast and went upstairs to shower the stench of cigarettes and booze-infused sweat off, got dressed and came back down. Took me, what, twenty minutes?

Less.

I check again behind the stairs, the kitchen, the entrance hall. Run upstairs, check the bedrooms and the bathroom.

Go back down.

Mary said she left him finishing his cereal in the kitchen and came to the living room to give some breakfast to her dolls who inexplicably migrated and live now downstairs.

Where the fuck is Cole?

My heart is hammering, jammed up in my throat. No way he would have gotten out, right? The doors are closed. Locked, too.

…I think. Did I lock them last night? After I left Octavia in the kitchen and went upstairs, after I returned to the kitchen later and broke out the booze and my smokes… After I spent hours drinking and smoking on the front porch, did I lock and check the windows like the police said I should do, like I fucking know I should?

Ah fuck. Fuck!

I throw the door open and ran out, stopping at the top of the three steps leading to the yard and staring wildly about.

No sign of Cole among the overgrown weeds.

Tearing through the living room, through the kitchen, I open the back door and jump out into the back yard, scanning the space.

“Cole!” I yell. “Goddammit, Cole! Where are you?”

I check the yard, but it’s not that big that a little kid can hide in it as I run up and down, raising hell. If nothing else, if he was crouching down, hiding for whatever inane reason, I’d have stepped on him and found him.

He’s not here.

I walk out to the front and start walking down the street. “Cole! Cole, can you hear me?” But he doesn’t answer, and nobody comes out. No dark-haired little boy.

No Cole.

What do I do? My mind blanks out. My phone. Need to get my cell phone. My legs tremble as I let myself back in the house.

Mary looks up. “Did you find him, daddy?”

Daddy. Can’t remember when she last called me that, when her eyes weren’t filled with anger or fear when looking at me—and I wish I could relish this moment, sit with her and ruffle her blond curls.

“Not yet, sweetheart.” I strive to keep my voice low. “Don’t worry, I will.”

I grab my phone, dial the police and ask for help. I barely understand what the voice at the other end says, except ask for my name and address and I give it to her.

“Don’t worry, sir,” she says as I’m about to disconnect. “He probably wandered off nearby. We’ll find him.”

Will we?

What kind of dad would leave the doors unlocked and allow his three-year-old son to wander off? What a fuck-up I am, dammit.

I manage not to throw the phone across the room, but I can’t sit on my ass and do nothing while waiting, either. For all I know, Cole is in danger, at the very least from cars passing by.

“Mary,” I say and reach for her. “Come with me. We’re gonna search for Cole.”

She puts down the doll she’d been holding. “But Dad, I have to feed Eleanor and Ruby. They’re hungry.”

“Please, Mary. Come on.”

“Maybe Tati has him. Where is Tati?”

I swallow hard. “She had to go, baby.”

Her lower lip trembles and she sits up, her dolls forgotten. “Tati wouldn’t go. Tati always comes.”

Goddammit. “Come on.” I grab her little hand, haul her to her feet. “Let’s go, Mary.”

“I want Tati,” Mary sobs, digging in her heels, big fat tears tracking down her cheeks. “Tati.”

Oh for chrissakes. I want her, too, I’m dying a little inside every time I realize she won’t be coming back, I want to call and apologize and beg and go to my knees to have her come back, but Cole… Right now I need to find Cole.

And I’m not letting my other kid home alone even if she’s having a total fucking meltdown.

My patience is on a short leash, the urgent need to find him driving me through the panic. So I swoop Mary up in my arms, letting her kick at me and slap at me with her small hands as I march out of the house once more, trying to think over her wailing about where Cole might have gone.

Stepping off the porch, I start down the path to the street, when I notice someone standing there.

“Matt?” Octavia looks pale, her dark hair messy. “Can we talk for a minute?”

She’s back. She’s here. I drink her in like she’s my last drop of water.

Gathering my wits, I stride over to her. “Tay.”

“Tati!” Mary wiggles in my arms, sniffling and reaching for Octavia. “You didn’t go.”

Octavia turns wide eyes on me, and I can’t help noticing they’re red-rimmed. “Where’s Cole?” And then, “What’s wrong?”

How can she read me so easily when I’m the moodiest, grumpiest guy on earth?

“Cole is missing,” I tell her. “We’ve got to find him.”

Right the hell now.