The next thirty minutes are pure violence. I’m going too hard. I know it. He knows it. But he matches my energy. Lets me burn it out. I get submitted twice. Choked unconscious once. Don’t care. Just tap and go again.
By the time I’m done I’m drenched in sweat and my lungs are screaming and I still can’t stop thinking about her.
About Jess leaning over that notebook. About her lip between her teeth. About how close we came to breaking every rulewe just made.
About how I’ve wanted her since Vegas. Since the night before I married my wife.
And now she’s in my house, during the day.
With my daughter.
And I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself.
If either of them knew the full truth...
The drive home is quiet. Filepe knows better than to make conversation when I’m like this. I lean my head against the window and watch Manhattan slide past.
Streetlights. Taxis. People living normal lives where they don’t lie to their best friends or want things they can’t have.
My phone is still in my pocket. Face down. Like that helps.
I pull it out. Look at those snail emojis again.
You’re fucked, Marco.
Completely fucked.
I turn the phone face down on my lap. Close my eyes.
Tomorrow she’ll be back. And I’ll sit at that kitchen island and pretend I don’t remember how she feels. How she tastes. How she says my name when she’s cumming so breathlessly.
I’ll be professional. Appropriate. I’ll focus on Ben and the routine and keeping everything controlled.
I’ll be fine.
Liar.
10
Jess
Five thirty a.m. is a crime against humanity. It really is.
Especially when you’re standing in a billionaire’s bathroom holding a spray bottle and trying to remember if you’re supposed to scrunch or squeeze or maybe sacrifice a small goat to the hair goddesses.
“When your nanny duties include curl maintenance and you’re pretty sure you’re about to mess up a dead woman’s legacy.”
Ben is sitting on the closed toilet lid, clutching Frederick like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her dark corkscrew curls are a disaster. They’re the kind of tangles that would make a professional stylist weep.
“Okay,” I say, trying to sound confident instead of terrified. “First thing. Water.”
I hold up the spray bottle like it’s a magic wand. Which, given my current skill level, it might as well be.
Ben’s eyes are huge. “Is it going to hurt?”
“Not if we’re brave together.” I kneel down so we’re eye level. “Remember our rules?”
She nods. Sets Frederick on the counter facing us.
