Page 62 of The Billionaire’s Nanny

Lucy came, and Carrington felt it—the clamp around her fingers, the stutter in Lucy's hips, the way Lucy's whole body went rigid for two seconds and then shuddered. Lucy's fingers dug into Carrington's shoulder hard enough to bruise. And her face, her face was everything. It was open and wrecked and unguarded in a way Carrington had never seen, and she kept staring at it because she couldn't stop.

Carrington pulled her fingers out of Lucy slowly, and Lucy's breath hitched. Carrington wiped her hand on the sheet and shoved her underwear down further, spread her thighs, and used two fingers on herself, fast and graceless, her forehead dropping to Lucy's shoulder.

Lucy's hand found the back of her neck. Her other hand slid down Carrington's back, over the robe and slip, down to the curve of her ass. Lucy gripped hard and pulled Carrington's hips forward. Carrington's fingers moved faster and her teeth found Lucy’s shoulder. She bit down and came hard.

It hit her in waves. Her thighs clamped around her own hand, and her stomach seized. The sound she made was swallowed by Lucy's shirt and by the dark. The effort of holding it in made it worse, made her whole body shake, made her clench so hard around her own fingers that it hurt.

She slowed, then stopped. Her forehead stayed on Lucy's shoulder. She could feel Lucy's breathing—slow now, steadier—and the damp of Lucy's shirt against her cheek. Carrington lifted her head, finding Lucy looking at her. Lucy's mouth was swollen from being pressed against Carrington's palm. Her hair was a mess and her shirt was rucked up under her arms and one leg was still tangled in her jeans. She was looking at Carrington with an expression that Carrington couldn't read in this light and wasn't sure she wanted to read in any light.

Carrington pulled her hand out of her own underwear, adjusted the slip down, and pulled the robe closed. She didn't tie it. Lucy reached up and tucked a strand of Carrington's hair behind her ear, then let her hand drop to the mattress.

Carrington lay down beside her. Lucy's bare leg was still flung across Carrington's thigh, and the sheet was twisted under them. The fitted sheet had come off the corner on Lucy's side.

Carrington stared at the ceiling, and Lucy's hand found hers under the sheet. They laced through Carrington's and held still. The contact was light and didn't ask anything, didn't promise anything, didn't need to be answered.

Her rings were lined up on the nightstand. She'd put them back on in the morning. She'd put the pins back in. She'd button the blouse and pull on the suit and be what she had to be, and she would do it perfectly, because she always did, and because the alternative was unthinkable.

But that was the morning. And this was now. Carrington lay still and breathed and did not let go.

"She's going to be impossible in the morning," Lucy said, breaking the silence.

"I love how you are with her." It came out before Carrington could stop herself.

Lucy's breathing changed. It went shallow for two breaths and then evened out. "Thank you."

22

LUCY

At six in the morning, Lucy had to make her own bed look slept in. She had left it made the day before—corners tucked in, the throw folded across the bottom—and it had stayed that way all night while she spent the night in the main house with Carrington. She pulled the covers back, pressed a dent into the pillow with her fist, and left a corner of the sheet hanging out.

She hadn’t slept all night. She had let herself in the cottage at half past four and sat on the couch with her shoes on until the sun lightened the sky. Melinda Alvarez would be in this room by half past ten, doing her rounds and checking it against the household list Carrington had mailed back.

She put yesterday's jeans and shirt in the hamper and hung her coat on the hook inside the door, with the sleeve pulled forward so it fell open. She washed the mug and stood it upside down on the rack. She had left the logbook out on the counter the night before. She carried it to the table and turned back to Monday.

Slept through. Ate her dinner, all of it. Worksheet finished before six. Talked the whole way to school.

She ran her thumb under the last line. The grooves were still in the paper from the line she had written and erased. One pull and the page would be ripped out of the book, and nobody would ever know she had written anything on it. Instead, she shut the book and lined it up with the edge of the table.

It had taken twenty minutes for her to go through the cottage and make sure it looked sufficiently lived in and all traces of Carrington were removed.

She switched the lamp off and went up to the house at twenty to seven.

The chef had already lit the range, wedged the back door open, and floured the marble.

Lucy took the green cup down off the shelf and rinsed it.

Carrington came through from the hall at ten to seven in a red dress. Lucy had seen her in it once since February, on the night at the harbor. Her hair was pinned up, with more pins in it than Lucy had ever taken out of it at night. Carrington set a folder on the end of the island and left it shut.

"Ms. Harper. Melinda Alvarez will be here at ten. She'll want to speak to you on your own for part of the visitation."

"Just like she did in March?”

"Yes." Carrington took the coffee Bettina poured her and set it down on the table. "She's seeing Grace at school after lunch. Grace goes in at the ordinary time."

"All right."

"Thank you."