Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
And I want to give it to her, even though my head says stop. Don’t go any farther. She’s your employee. She’s the nanny. This is reckless. A mistake.
I should back off. Stop myself.
But one look at her bruised lips, her hungry eyes, and all my restraint shatters.
Her tits are in my face, and there’s no place I’d rather be. I kiss and lick and suck as she holds me tight against her chest. We are a frenzy of desire. Unstoppable lust that’s been building inside these walls.
Her words flash through my head—I can’t stop thinking about how you might kiss me. Everywhere.
I want to kiss her everywhere.
My head is a fog. I’ve lost all sense of reason. And I don’t even want to find it.
I just want to find her.
I kiss my way down her body, over the soft, beautiful flesh of her belly. “You taste so sweet,” I say.
She murmurs. “Don’t stop.”
“I can’t stop. You’re too fucking delicious. Too fucking sweet.” I kiss her belly ring, and I’m close—very close—to the waistband of her leggings. To the way it dips in a little V. To the invitation of her spread legs.
She parts them more.
I inch down her body, wanting to taste her everywhere.
My hands toy with the waistband, and she urges me on, pushing my head, shoving me down. Making it clear that all systems are a go. And my cock seems to think so too.
I pull the fabric down an inch and kiss her waist.
She pushes my head harder. “I want you so much.”
“I fucking want you too,” I growl, grabbing her leggings to peel them off—
Then my watch buzzes. Annoyingly. Persistently. With an alarm.
“Fuck,” I groan, jerking away. That has to be my morning skate reminder. But it’s not. It’s a phone call.
My watch tells me Parker’s calling. In the middle of a school day.
I bolt upright, hunting for my phone. Where the hell is it? I spot it, knocked off to the side of the yoga mat, and lunge for it.
“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” I say, trying to clear the lust from my voice in record time.
“I forgot my star chart! The science fair is tomorrow, and we need to set up today. Can you bring it to me?”
“Of course,” I say, guilt slamming into me, sharp and cold.
Sabrina is already sitting up, adjusting her top, fixing her leggings, her gaze averted.
“Where’s your star chart?” I ask, shoving a hand through my hair, like I can finger-comb out the evidence.
“My desk!”
“I’ll drop it off on the way to morning skate,” I tell him, but one look at the time and—fuck—I’m already pushing it. Morning skate isn’t mandatory, but I never miss it. “Maybe I can drop it off after?”
Sabrina lifts a finger, mouthing, “I’ll take it.”
My shoulders relax. “Thank you,” I mouth back. Then to Parker: “Sabrina will bring it to you now, buddy.”
“Thanks, Dad!” He sounds relieved too.
I hang up, and when I turn back, Sabrina looks at me—a disheveled mess, just like I am.
Flustered, she smooths a hand down her leggings, then twists her hair into a ponytail. “You get the star chart. I’ll take it to school,” she says, all business.
And I hate myself as I say yes.
I hate myself as I climb the stairs, a fading boner making the whole thing feel even more miserable.
I hate myself as I make it to Parker’s room, my pulse still rocketing, my body still buzzing from touching her. My heart slams against my chest so damn hard.
I’m sweating, and the lust hasn’t even fully left my body as I grab the star chart, feeling like a complete ass.
I should have remembered to tell him to take it this morning.
I shouldn’t have let things spiral out of control so badly that I nearly missed morning skate.
And I definitely shouldn’t have almost tongue-fucked the nanny.
Cooler heads should prevail.
When I make it downstairs, Sabrina is standing in the kitchen, a workout jacket zipped over her chest—not a Sea Dogs one. And somehow, that bugs me. But I get it.
And it’s also a reminder.
I hand her the star chart. “Thanks,” I say, and it hardly feels like enough.
“No problem.” She smiles as she tucks the paper under her arm.
“Sabrina,” I add, hating the sound of my own voice—and what I’m about to say. “That shouldn’t happen again.”
For a second—a split second—disappointment flickers in her eyes. But then it vanishes so fast it’s like it was never there at all.
“What shouldn’t happen again?” she says breezily, like she did over the summer, when we agreed to never speak of her 1001 confessions.
It’s a new truce. A harsh understanding. That we’ll both force amnesia to set in.
She sails out of the house, like it was nothing.
Like it didn’t happen.
Like I’ll have to pretend too.
And I know it’s for the best.
18
PUMPKIN ATROCITIES