Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for my jeans.
Before I can form a coherent thought, she’s popped open my fly and reached inside, her fingers closing around my suffering length.
I cry out, hips jerking forward of their own free will. Even her hot skin feels cool against the burning length of me, and when she sinks to her knees, it’s all I can do not to let it happen.
But then I think about her leg. Being down on her knees on hard tile is going to hurt her. Then, I think about my girls and about how deeply this is going to hurt them, even if I don’t get caught in a compromising position and hauled away by the NOPD.
I’ve already crossed a potentially fatal line.
But if I let their nanny blow me in a back hallway? If I come down her throat with my hands fisted in her curls? There will be no coming back from that.
I will never be able to face Clover over the breakfast table the same way again, and my girls will likely lose the one person who’s made “getting back to normal” seem like something that could actually happen for our family.
And family is the most important thing.
Way more important than getting my rocks off or even starting something with a woman I care about more and more with every passing day.
It doesn’t matter how much I care about Clover. We are math that doesn’t math—an unsolvable, flawed equation—and the fact that I let that slip my mind for even a moment is unforgivable.
“Wait, we can’t,” I grunt, the words rough, pained as I close my hands around her upper arms and lift her back to her feet before her lips can move a centimeter closer to my crotch.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “We’re alone. No one will see. It’s okay.”
She reaches for me again, but I dodge her, stepping back to tuck myself into my jeans. “It’s not that,” I say, zipping up with a wince. “It’s us. It’s the girls. It’s… This was a mistake.”
Her expression shifts, confusion morphing into irritation, then hurt as she says, “Was it? It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt…” She shakes her head, her throat working for a beat. “I know we agreed to keep things professional, Dean, but nothing has ever felt as good as it feels when you touch me. Surely that has to count for something?”
“But what? What does it count for?” I ask, my voice still rough. “You don’t date men with children, and I can’t just fuck you, Clover. I can’t fuck the nanny on the side like some cheesy middle-aged movie star having a mid-life crisis, and, I… I just…” I pull out my wallet before I confess that I’m in love with her and make things even worse. I find a hundred and press it into her hand. “For a cab home and overtime pay for taking the girls to the game tonight. Stay as long as you want, have fun, and just… Just be safe.”
I flee for the door, just like Roid Rage before me.
Only I’m not fleeing a man threatening to punch my face in. I’m fleeing the consequences of my own lack of willpower. I’m fleeing the very real possibility that I’ll lose control again and fuck Clover against that wall.
I’m still shaking as I burst out onto the dance floor, so I head for the restroom. I hide in a stall, talking my stupid, piece of shit, idiot, short-sighted dick down from the ridiculous state he’s in, then wash my hands and splash water on my neck.
Then, I take a hard look at myself in the mirror, my shame clear in every line on my face. There aren’t many—I’ve worn sunscreen since I was a kid—but I still look like an old man compared to Clover. Compared to that loser who laid hands on her. And yes, he was a loser, but at least she was trying to move on from the temptation we pose to each other.
I should do the same, or at the very least ensure Clover and I are never alone together again.
Not ever.
As I head down to the kid zone, I vow to make that happen. If I haven’t already ruined things, I’ll make sure I don’t give myself a chance to screw up again.
The girls are where I left them, still deep in pretend fun with Mimi, but tired enough now that they don’t put up much of a fight when I say it’s time to head home for bath and story time. I promise to let them play mermaids in the bath, too, before bed, and Ava happily hunts down their shoes, while I locate Bella’s lost socks in the ball pit.
We say our goodbyes to Elly and Mimi and the other kids they’ve had fun playing with, then head for the truck. As I strap the girls into their car seats, they both smell of cotton candy, rubber from the play structure, and little kid sweat. Innocent smells that make me even more ashamed of the way I smelled when I first got to the men’s room.