Page 37 of The Billionaire’s Nanny

"You're very direct."

"I learned from the best." Lucy grabbed the hem of her own shirt and pulled it over her head in one motion, dropping it on the floor beside them. The air hit her skin, and she watched Carrington's eyes move down, her lips parted and her breathing audible.

Carrington reached up and touched her collarbone with two fingers, tracing the line of it like she was checking whether something was real. Her fingers were warm and slightly unsteady. Lucy took her hand and moved it down to her breast and held it there. Carrington's breath caught. Her thumb moved in a slow circle on her nipple, pressing just enough to make Lucy's stomach clench.

"More," Lucy said.

"You're bossy."

"You like it."

Carrington's mouth twitched, then broke open into a wide and crooked smile. Lucy leaned down and kissed it right off her face. She pulled at the blouse buttons. They were small and fiddly, the kind that needed patience and both hands; Lucy had neither. She got two open and ripped the third, the button pinging off into the room somewhere.

Carrington snorted against her mouth. "I liked that blouse."

"You have forty blouses."

"I have eleven."

"Now you have ten." Lucy shoved the fabric open and off and the bra was next. She popped it one-handed and Carrington's breasts spilled out. Lucy just looked for a second. She had never seen all of this skin in full light. The sun showed everything—the faint lines, the color, the way her breathing moved through her ribs—and Lucy wanted to put her mouth on every inch of it.

She bent down and took her nipple in her mouth, and Carrington arched up off the boards with a sound that was loud and unfiltered. Before, she had been quiet, had bitten down on everything, and made almost no noise at all. Now the sound bounced off the low ceiling and echoed. Carrington went still for a second, blinking, like an animal hearing its own voice for the first time.

"Don't you dare get quiet on me," Lucy said, lifting her head. "There's nobody here. Nobody's coming back for hours. I want to hear you. I want to hear everything."

She went back to it, her mouth on one breast, hand on the other. Carrington got louder, and the sounds were broken and uneven, gasped out between breaths that came too fast. Lucy's knee was still between her legs and she could feel Carrington grinding against it, could feel the heat and the damp through the wool of her pants, and she wanted more. She wanted her mouth there.

She sat up. Carrington made a noise of protest that was almost a whine and Lucy said, "Pants off."

Carrington's hands went to her waistband and she shoved the pants down over her hips and they caught on her heel. Lucy grabbed her ankle and yanked the shoe off, dropping it on the floor, and the other shoe and pants came off. Underneath was plain underwear, already wet enough that the fabric clung.

Lucy yanked them off and dropped them on the pile of clothes and then she sat back on her heels and looked. Carrington Cole was naked on her floor. Her hair was still half down, and she was breathing hard. Her skin was flushed from her throat down to her stomach. Her legs were slightly apart. Lucy desperately wanted to put her mouth on her and taste her. She wanted to feel her come apart on this floor with the sun on both of them and nothing hidden.

She pushed Carrington's knees apart and lay down on the boards between them—the wood was hard and splintery, but she didn't care, and put her mouth on her.

The sound Carrington made was almost a shout. Her hips bucked up and her hand came down on the back of Lucy's head. Lucy held her legs open with both hands and licked into her pussy, slow at first, finding the rhythm that made the sounds louder. Carrington’s core was slick and hot, and she trembled under Lucy's mouth. Each stroke of Lucy's tongue dragged a sound out from her that came out raw. Lucy drank them in.

"Lucy—"

Lucy kept going. Carrington's thigh clenched against her ear, and Lucy worked her tongue in tight circles. Carrington's hand tightened in her hair, and her hips rocked in a rhythm that was getting faster and less controlled, the sounds getting higher, on the edge of her orgasm.

She came with her back arched and both hands in Lucy's hair. Her moans filled the whole cottage. Lucy felt her orgasm—the pulsing against her tongue, the way her whole body clenched and released and clenched again—and she kept going, gentler now, letting the aftershocks roll through while Carrington breathed in ragged pulls.

When Lucy finally lifted her head, Carrington was flat on her back with one arm over her eyes. Her chest was heaving. The last two hairpins had fallen out somewhere and her hair was spread across the boards in a dark fan, nothing like the controlled updo she wore every day. Lucy reached up and gathered it and let it fall through her fingers.

"Come here," Carrington said, her voice wrecked.

Lucy kissed her, and Carrington whimpered. Then her hands were on Lucy, pulling at the leggings and shoving them down. Lucy helped, kicking them off along with everything else until she was naked except for the cardigan still bunched at her elbows, soft wool against her skin, and she didn't take it off. She didn't want to. She wanted Carrington to undress her with her eyes the way she was doing now, looking at every part of her in the light like she was memorizing it.

"I want your mouth on me," Lucy said.

Carrington shifted and rolled Lucy onto her back. The boards were hard and cold against her spine, and she didn't care. Carrington kissed her throat, collarbone, breast, and stomach. Each kiss was deliberately placed, almost careful in a way that made Lucy want to grab her and speed her up. But she didn't. She wanted Carrington to savor her slowly and take her time.

Then her mouth was between Lucy's legs and Lucy stopped thinking about what everything meant. Carrington's tongue was slow and thorough. She slid two fingers into Lucy’s pussy and curled upward to hit her G-spot. Lucy's hips came off the floor and made a loud, low guttural noise. She had always been loud, never swallowing anything, and now she filled the cottage with gasps and curses. Carrington kept pumping her fingers inside her, and when Lucy’s walls fluttered around her fingers, Carrington picked up the pace.

Lucy’s orgasm wracked through her. Her back arched and her thighs clenched. She said something that might have been a word or might have been just a sound, and the orgasm rolled through her in waves that went on long enough that she lost track of where she was for a second.

When she came back into her body, Carrington was lying beside her on the floor, propped on one elbow, looking at her with an expression that was soft and amused. They lay on the floor in the gap for a while and neither of them moved to fix the couch.