The flush creeping up her neck. The way her mouth had opened slightly, as if she’d forgotten how to form words. The stammering about “towel situations” that had been playing on repeat in my head for twenty-four hours.
Fuck.
My body was responding to the memory before my brain had even caught up to what was happening. I could feel it. The slow, inevitable hardening beneath my boxers, the heat pooling low in my abdomen. The kind of physical response I hadn’t had to a woman in so long that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
I tried to ignore it. Rolled onto my stomach. Thought about cold water. Thought about my ex-wife. Thought about literally anything that would kill the growing erection that was making a mockery of my self-control.
It didn’t work.
Because my traitorous brain kept replaying the moment. The way she looked at me like I was something she wanted to touch. The way her breath had caught. The way she’d said “towel situation” like it was the most scandalous thing she’d ever uttered.
I was a grown man. A surgeon. A father. I had discipline and control and a carefully constructed life that didn’t include fantasizing about my daughter’s nanny.
And yet.
I pushed my boxers down, wrapping my hand around my hardening cock with a low exhale. The touch sent a jolt of pleasure through me, and I had to bite back a groan. This was a terrible idea. This was inappropriate and unprofessional and exactly the kind of thing that would complicate an already complicated situation.
I stroked my dick slowly, trying to convince myself to stop, knowing I wouldn’t. Because now I imagined her in my bed.Picturing the way those wide eyes would look if she saw me like this—flushed and hard and completely undone. I imagined her stammering apologies turning into something else entirely as her hands replaced mine. Her mouth—I groaned, stroking faster, my hips moving in rhythm with my hand.
In my fantasy, she wasn’t running away. She was coming closer, her chaotic energy focused entirely on me. I could almost feel the softness of her skin, the way her curls would feel tangled around my fingers. I imagined her straddling me, that flustered expression transforming into something darker, more confident. Imagined her taking me inside her while I watched those eyes go wide all over again.
The pleasure built steadily, my breathing becoming ragged. I was close—so close—and I didn’t even care anymore about the inappropriateness, or the complications, or the fact that this was a catastrophically bad idea.
I came hard, biting down on my pillow to muffle the sound, my entire body tensing as release flooded through me. For a moment, there was nothing but the physical sensation—the relief, the pleasure, the temporary erasure of every rational thought.
Then reality crashed back in.
I lay there in the dark, chest heaving, my hand and chest sticky, my mind already spiraling into recrimination.
What the hell was I doing?
She was my employee. She was young and chaotic and completely wrong for me in every conceivable way.
She’d broken my daughter’s arm, for Christ’s sake.
And I’d just spent the last five minutes fantasizing about her like some lovesick teenager.
I got up, cleaned myself off in the bathroom, and tried not to look at my reflection. Tried not to acknowledge the fact that I was completely, utterly fucked.
Monday was going to be a disaster.
But not for the reasons I’d thought.
Because now I had to look her in the eye and pretend I hadn’t spent the night thinking about her flushed face and wide eyes and the way she’d stammered my name—No.Stop.
I climbed back into bed and stared at the ceiling, knowing sleep was now completely impossible.
This was going to be a very long night.
