Shit. I don't like the idea of a next nanny. I don't like the idea of anyone with my son except Mallory. I know shit about child-rearing, but I watch her and it reminds me of my mom. She's been amazing with him. Patient and sweet and she smiles at him like he hung the moon.
And she makes my dick hard.
Okay well, I have business to take care of, I guess. I can’t remember the last time I whacked off. I have an urge, I find a willing partner. That’s my life and I’m proud of it. It’s always mutual, and above board. If there was no Dylan or Mallory, I’d be at the bar with Tara. Or I’d call one of my three regulars—Christine, Allie, or Grace. But I can’t do that for multiple, obvious reasons. The unobvious reason is that I would be thinking of Mallory the whole time. And I don’t do that. I don’t use a woman if I’ve got another one on my mind. I’ve never had to because no woman has stuck in my brain like Mallory is right now. So I flip off all the lights except the one on my bedside table, peel out of my underwear, and drop back on my bed. I open the drawer in the nightstand and pull out the small bottle of lube I keep in there since I tried anal with Grace a few months ago.
I squirt some onto the tip of my cock. I groan when my palm slips over the tip and down the shaft. My eyes roll back in my head and I let my mind wander. It doesn’t go very far. Just right back to the memory of Mallory’s perky ass in her pajama shorts swinging its way up the stairs earlier. I think I cupped her ass that night we fooled around, but I can’t really remember. All I remember is how wet she was when I put my hands in her underwear and how tight she was when I slipped my fingers inside her. And the way her eyes flared with excitement when I put my fingers in my mouth…
“Fuck!”
My eyes fly open and I catch the back end of Mallory as she darts from the room. I bolt up off the bed, grabbing my underwear and holding it in front of my rapidly deflating cock. “Mallory!”
I hiss out her name in a stage whisper because I have the common sense not to scream and wake Dylan, but inside, I am not just screaming but roaring with rage. And humiliation. I grab a pair of sweats out of the open closet and yank them on. I march across the hall and fling open the door to the guest room.
Mallory is standing between the side of the queen-sized bed and the open bathroom door. Our eyes connect and she spins and darts for the bathroom. She’s fast but I’m faster and manage to get there before she can close the door in my face. I push my way inside and close it behind me so she can’t escape. “What the hell?” I hiss at her. “Are you unfamiliar with the concept of knocking?”
“Are you unfamiliar with the concept of cleaning up after yourself?” she snaps. She turned around when I pushed my way inside so she’s facing the shower, not me. “I went downstairs to make tea and found your dirty dishes. I’m here for Dylan not to be your maid.”
“Then don’t touch the fucking dishes,” I snap back and step closer to her. “You barged into my room to tell me that? Look, it’s my house and if I want to clean up in the morning, after a shitty game, I’ll do that. If you get up before me, then just ignore them. I’ll deal with it. I’m dealing with every fucking thing.”
"Are you pissed off you couldn't fuck your neighbor?" Mallory asks and finally turns to face me. Her resting bitch face has been elevated to animated bitch face. Eyes narrowed, jaw tense, shoulders up. She's like a feral cornered cat. And I'm like a pissed-off lion. "You haven't fucked a random person in a week. You must be frustrated. You want to bring your neighbor home, do it. I'm not here to cramp your style."
Is she fucking serious right now? “I didn’t ask for your permission to fuck anyone and I don’t intend to ask. I will do what I want to do when I think it’s appropriate. I’m not so driven by my dick, Mallory, that I can’t go five days without a warm, wet place to stick it.”
She folds her arms over her chest and glares. I glare back. She arches one eyebrow. Oh right. I was jerking off. “I didn’t say I could go without release. I said I didn’t need someone else to do it. Sorry if you’re like some kind of sexual camel and you can store up your desires for months or whatever. I enjoy sex. That doesn’t make me an asshole or a deviant, Mal. But I can also take care of my own business if I have to. You should try it sometime. Maybe you’ll stop being so fucking?—”
I stop. I’m crossing every line. All the lines. I’m being cruel and saying shit that isn’t even how I feel because I’m humiliated. The fury on her face is fading fast. Her eyes are a little wetter than when I walked in here. She unfolds her arms and bites her bottom lip for a second. “I was angry and didn’t think. I should have knocked.”
I take a deep breath and run a hand through my hair on the exhale, forcing myself to get my anger and ego in check. “I’m embarrassed. I’m sorry. But yeah, you really need to knock.”
She gives me the faintest nod and then moves her hazel eyes to the floor. Her top teeth finally release her bottom lip. “I might stop being what? A frigid bitch? An uptight cow? A bitchy friend? What?”
“No. I don’t know…” I sigh again. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean it.”
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say…” I pause. I really don’t want to confess this. “I was going to say maybe you would stop being so fucking angry all the time if you made yourself come every now and then.”
I hear her take a short, sharp breath at that but I don’t dare look at her. I turn toward the door. “I’m sorry. It was mean and childish and I don’t mean it. Just… let’s go to sleep. I’ll apologize again in the morning, I promise.”
"I can't exactly play with myself when I have a tiny roommate who pops his head out of his sleeping pod whenever he wants," she says, stopping me in my tracks as I reach for the door handle. "I know exactly how to get myself off when I have the opportunity, Tate. Trust me. I know what I'm doing. It was my ex who didn't, remember?"
Oh yeah. I remember. I slowly turn back to face her. The tears that threatened to fall from her eyes are gone. Her shoulders are back and she looks defiant. Her cheeks are pink but not from anger anymore. She’s embarrassed but she isn’t backing down. “I tried relieving my own stress in the shower but…” She lifts the hem of her shirt, one hand holding the fabric close to her breasts, and turns and shows me the vicious-looking faded purple marks across her ribs. "This still throbs a lot and moving my arms and stuff… for too long doesn't feel great."
“Oh.” That’s the best I can come up with because my brain is melting faster than ice in August. Am I really having a conversation about the logistics of masturbating with my ex-friend and son’s nanny?
She moves to drop the hem of her shirt but I cross the room in a flash and grab it before it can fall. I take a closer look at the bruises, even trace my fingertips over the marks. “You should probably have a follow-up with a doctor. Make sure everything is setting right.”
“I don’t have health insurance here anymore Tate,” she whispers. “But it’s fine. I’ll figure that all out when I get back to Silver Bay. I think I can be put back on my parents if I live at home for a while. I’m under twenty-five.”
“But I need you here for a while longer,” I say, and I let the shirt drop but keep my fingers against her tender flesh under it. Her eyelashes flutter. “I’ll get you in with the team doctor. It’ll be free. Or else I’ll absorb the cost.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask,” I reply. “I need to know you’re okay.”
She doesn’t say anything. My fingertips move, sliding slowly up her rib cage. She shudders but doesn’t reach to stop me or move my hand away.
“Mallory?” I keep my eyes on her face and she finally looks back at me. “If you need some release… I’m right next door. And I know how to do it.”
