Page 13 of Knot The Nanny We Planned

Knox

I haven't slept a single goddamn minute since the dream.

Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in the dream. Back between Willow's thighs, her slick coating my chin, her taste, honey and salt and something impossibly sweet, lingering on my tongue like a drug I can't shake. My cock has been hard since the moment she walked out of the elevator, and jerking off twice in the dark did absolutely nothing except make the sheets sticky and my patience nonexistent.

Dreams shared between scent-matches aren't uncommon. I knew that intellectually. The agency's literature mentioned it: shared sensory experiences during sleep, biological bridging between compatible partners. But reading about it in a brochure and living it are two very different things.

I didn't just dream about her. I was with her. I felt her body beneath my hands, felt the tremor in her thighs when my tongue touched her clit, felt the way her channel clamped around my fingers when she came. I felt her real orgasm ripple through the dream like a shockwave, and I woke up with my knot fully inflated, my boxers soaked with precum, and her name on my lips.

And then I stood in the hallway like a goddamn creep, listening to her breathe, because I couldn't make myself walk away.

JD's order echoes in my head: ‘Nobody touches her. Not until she's ready. Not until she asks.’

Fine. I can be patient. I can also be strategic.

Because here's the thing about Willow that JD and Deklan are too busy being noble to notice - she's already asking. Her body is screaming for us. Her scent is a constant broadcast of arousal and need. The dream wasn't just a fantasy, it was her omega instincts reaching out, pulling us in, begging for connection. She might not be ready to say the words with her mouth, but her biology is doing plenty of talking.

And I speak fluent biology.

By the time dawn breaks, I've already showered, cold water again, because hot water makes me think of JD in his shower and the sounds Willow made through the wall, dressed in a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. No underwear, because everything feels like too much fabric against my skin right now, and also because I'm a bastard who knows exactly what he's doing.

I pad barefoot into the kitchen at 6:15 AM.

The penthouse kitchen is ridiculous. Marble countertops, a Sub-Zero fridge, and a stove with more burners than any household needs. But I'm not here to cook. I'm here to wait.

I start the coffee maker, lean against the counter, and wait.

At 6:47, I hear her door open.

The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. The rustle of fabric. And then, Christ, then her scent hits me, rolling down the hallway like a wave. Honey and vanilla, still thick with sleep, still layered with the lingering traces of last night's arousal. She didn't shower. She's still wearing whatever she slept in, which means her skin is still carrying the scent of her slick, of her dream, of the orgasm that I felt through the walls.

My knot twitches. My cock, already half-hard, fills completely, pressing against the gray fabric of my sweatpants in a way that's obscenely obvious.

I don't adjust myself. I let her see. I want her to see.

She rounds the corner into the kitchen, and I watch her stop dead.

She's wearing an oversized t-shirt, one of the extras Deklan left in her room, I'm guessing, because it's way too big on her. It falls to mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone. Her hair is a mess, honey-brown tangles spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes are puffy from lack of sleep, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted.

She looks like she just rolled out of bed after being thoroughly fucked.

She wasn't. But God, I want to fix that.

"Morning," I say. My voice comes out lower than intended, rougher. The Alpha in me is too close to the surface, and I don't bother pushing it down. Let her hear it. Let her feel it.

"Morning." Her voice is a croak. She clears her throat, eyes darting around the kitchen, landing everywhere except on me. "Is there coffee?"

"Almost ready." I nod toward the machine. "Cups are in the cabinet above the sink."

She moves toward it, and I watch her. I don't pretend not to. I watch the way her hips sway under that oversized shirt, the way her bare legs flex with each step, the way the hem rides up when she reaches for the cabinet. She has to stand on her toes, and the shirt rides up enough to reveal the bottom curve of her ass.

She's not wearing underwear.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. She's standing in my kitchen, three feet from me, wearing nothing but a t-shirt. No bra, I can see the shape of her nipples pressing against the thin cotton. No panties. Just bare, soft skin from mid-thigh down.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I grip the edge of the counter so hard the marble creaks.