AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m a thirty-seven-year-old widow. I should not be having the thoughts I am, especially when I am a father of a daughter. I can sure as hell tell you if a grown-ass man was sniffing around my barely legal daughter, I’d bury him where his remains would never be found.
When I realize Henley can’t see my denial, I say, “Notch out the faucet to the halfway mark—”
My instructions are cut short when the bathroom door swings open and I stumble into the non-steamy space. It is as risqué as my deviant head imagined when the bathroom light flickered on. Henley is wearing a towel that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her hair is pulled up and off her neck, and the split in the material I starched to within an inch of its life while waiting for our latest recruit is dangerously close to gaping open when she juts out her hip and says, “By the time you talk me through the process, there’ll be no hot water left.” She steps to the side, tightens the scrap of material barely covering her plentiful chest, then waves her hand at the shower. “I learn better when shown instead of being told, so will you please teach me your ways, wise gentleman?”
Shut your mouth, fix the damn faucet, then leave.
“Pull it halfway out.” I demonstrate what I mean on the tap. “Drag it all the way to hot.” Henley watches me with her teeth digging into her plump bottom lip and her scent strong enough to announce her nipples are seconds from scratching my back. “Then slowly bring it back to cold on a thirty-degree incline until you find the right temperature.”
A zap hits my balls when her murmured command flaps the locks around my ear. “Can you be a little gentler with your tugs, sir? I like my showers scorching hot.” She’s standing so close we’re practically one, so there’s no way for me to miss her big inhalation when she takes an unashamed whiff of my scent. As she exhales with a moan, she asks, “What brand is your aftershave? It smells good enough to eat.”
There’s something I want to feed you.
It isn’t aftershave.
Needing distance before I say something stupid out loud, I ask, “Does this temperature work for you?”
Her breasts press against my good shoulder when she leans over me to check the water temperature. For someone preparing to shower, she smells fresh and innocent—unlike her throaty reply. “I think I can handle a little more.”
She’s twenty-two and your daughter’s nanny. Get those thoughts out of your head.
After I adjust the faucet, she tests the water again, her erect nipples unmoving from my back. “More. I definitely need more.”
For fuck’s sake, Brodie. Leave now!
“More. Please. Just a little more.”
You’re a father! Fathers aren’t meant to have thoughts like this.
“Perfect! There. That’s great!”
I swear to God, if you don’t leave this instant, anytime you attempt to strangle the sausage over the next month, I’ll remind you how Mrs. Montebello’s hairy top lip tickled your navel during your first assignment undercover.
No more words are needed.
I’m out.
“Thanks for your help, Brodie,” Henley purrs with a giggle as I make a beeline for the door.
I throw my hand in the air to acknowledge I heard her, race into my room, and close the door behind me before working on forgetting that I have obligations in the morning that leave no room for a hangover.
I last two minutes in my room before it finally dawns that no amount of alcohol will have me forgetting that there is a beautiful naked woman only feet away from me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve described someone as beautiful and naked back-to-back. It’s been even longer than I’ve been dishonored with the widow title.
With my mood depleted, I snatch up the bottle, then gallop down the stairs to place much-needed distance between me and the house guest I’m adamant I still don’t need.
Henley’s hair is still wet when she finds me in the living room, aimlessly flicking through channels. Although her nightwear has around the same amount of material as the towel, it is far thinner and almost see-through. It clings to her body and exposes that she also isn’t a fan of wearing undergarments under her nightwear.
There’s nothing like the feeling of sleepwear brushing directly on your skin. It is erotic and sensual—on par with the visual of Henley’s cotton nightie slinking past her nipples as she saunters into the living room to join me on the sofa.
“Hey.” Her smile adds to her animated greeting. “I thought you had gone back to bed.” After tucking her feet under her bottom, she angles her torso to face me. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I wet my dry lips before replying. “No, I was awake.”
“Doing?” When my brows furrow, her smile wanes. “Oh... So the tension during our first bathroom rodeo was one-sided? Ouch.” She sinks low into her seat before peering up at the television mounted on the wall. “Though I can’t really complain. That was the biggest O I’ve experienced by myself. I usually need help.”
