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That was stupid of me. I should have waited. In fact, no, I shouldn’t have cared. He’s just my employer, and I came near to begging for this job. I love his kids. They’re growing on me, with their quiet pain and their need for affection. I want to take care of them.
For myself. For them. Not just because he asked me to, not only because he’s paying me to.
For him.
I know. I’m in too deep, running out of air, and I can’t seem to find the surface.
I leave the kids playing with a Lego set, cross-legged on the carpet, still hiccupping, figuring they need a few moments to come around—during which time I can check if I have the ingredients to make them pancakes.
I want to pamper them, since waking was so traumatic today.
The floorboards creak under my steps as I make my way toward the stairs. I wonder where Matt is, and then I know.
I’d been half hoping he’d be gone by the time I came out of the kids’ bedroom, but I can hear him in the shower.
Cursing silently, I start toward the stairs, but before I take two steps, the water shuts off and the bathroom door opens.
I’m caught like a deer in headlights as Matt emerges in a billowing cloud of steam, clad only in a small towel slung around his narrow hips. He’s toweling his hair with another towel as I take him in, slightly dazed.
Because the man is cut. Ripped. Much more muscular than I thought, despite the glimpses I caught when seeing him in his faded T-shirts over the days and weeks.
And the ink I noticed on his arm continues around his torso.
Barbed wire, wrapping around him in a death hold.
I open my mouth to say something—Wow is the word that springs to mind, as well as Holy Shit—he notices me and does a double take.
He lowers the towel from his head, his dark hair sticking out in all directions, and damn if he isn’t cute on top of being drop dead sexy.
He’s almost thirty, twelve years older than me. He’s a brooding, rude asshole who doesn’t really want me in his house. He’s bearded and tattooed and despite being a dad to the kids playing next door, every inch of him screams bad boy.
So what does it say about me that I don’t care for Adam kissing me, but I’m wondering instead how Matt’s mouth would taste?
As if hearing my thoughts, he licks his lips, his gaze dipping to my cleavage, and his eyes darken, pupils dilating.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he wants me. That powerful chest is rising and falling fast, and then I see the unmistakable bulge at the front of the towel, and swallow hard.
Jesus. He’s hard, and an answering throb starts between my legs. My blood beats hot under my skin. My face flames.
I can’t move from the spot. Couldn’t if my life depended on it. I can’t stop looking at him, at the way his biceps flex as he clenches the towel in a powerful fist, at his flat stomach, his chiseled pecs, his ink, his mouth, his burning eyes—and then my gaze backslides again, returning to the tent on the front of the towel.
Good God, just how big is his cock—and why do I feel so hot as if I’m about to self-combust?
“Tay…” His voice is hoarse, and I swallow a moan at the sound of it, his voice so strained by arousal, wrapped around his pet name for me.
I like it. Tati makes me feel like a little kid. Tay makes me feel like the woman a man like Matt would notice.
Letting the towel in his hand drop, he takes two steps, pinning me to the bannister of the stairs. He touches my face, looking down at me, and his hardness presses against my stomach, hard like steel.
He smells of soap and arousal, a dark, spicy scent that I draw deep into my lungs.
What is happening? My body is on fire. My skin aches, begging for his touch. His callused, big hand on my face isn’t enough. Not nearly. I need it elsewhere.
Everywhere.
I lift a hand to touch a droplet that’s sliding down his chest, lingering over the ink, over the smoothness of his warm skin, the solid feel of the muscle underneath.
He draws a shaky breath, his cock swelling more, pressing into me though the layers of fabric, making me gasp.
