Page 11 of Nine Week Nanny

I shift, and there it is, that sweet, tender soreness at my entrance that has me clenching and immediately remembering the way he felt inside me. My nipples tighten in the chilled air.

And not just that.

God, the way he teased me. The way his finger circled where no one’s ever touched. The shock of it, the rush, the wicked promise in every slow pass. Heat flickers low, and I have to bite back a moan, pressing my thighs together like I can chase the ghost of it.

I never thought I’d want that. Never thought I’d even wonder. Now I can’t stop thinking about how good it felt. How dirty. How much more I suddenly crave.

Curiosity drags my gaze sideways.

Even asleep, he’s ridiculously delicious. His dark hair is mussed from my fingers. That thick shadow along his jaw that isn’t quite a beard but makes him look even more dangerous.

His broad chest rises and falls under the sheets, his skin warm and golden against the white. He’s all lean muscle, flat abs, and shoulders built to block out the rest of the world.

And here I am, naked, in his bed.

My pulse spikes. I want to memorize him because I know I’ll never see him again. I can’t be here when he wakes.

His breathing is deep and even, but it doesn’t stop me from holding mine as I inch toward the edge of the mattress. The sheets whisper over my skin, every sound deafening in the quiet.

My jeans are in a heap by the door, one leg twisted inside out. My black top’s not far from them. My bra’s MIA. My panties, God help me, might still be where he peeled them off and tossed them aside. I can’t think about that.

The carpet’s cold under my bare feet as I edge away, one slow step at a time. I don’t look at him. If I do, I might remember the way he pressed me against that door, the way his mouth felt on my skin, his fingers daring me, testing my boundaries.

I crouch by the door, pulling on my jeans, wincing at the tenderness between my thighs.

My top comes next, no bra. I scoop up my panties like they’re evidence, stuff them in my pocket, and snag my heels.

One last glance over my shoulder as I grab my bag on the chair by the door. He’s still asleep, sprawled carelessly in the sheets, all lean muscle and dark hair. He’s the kind of sin I can’t afford to indulge in again.

I slip out before the temptation to stay gets the better of me

The hallway is dim and silent, just the faint hum of the ice machine down the corridor. My bare feet make no sound on the carpet until I duck into the alcove by the elevators and shove my heels on.

My bag’s slung over my shoulder, heavier than I remember, and when I dig inside for my phone, the screen glares back at me: 4:32 a.m., one red sliver of battery. Perfect.

I thumb open the Uber app and pray it loads before the phone dies. A driver pings back. He's six minutes away.

While I wait, I scroll to Maris’s name. My fingers are trembling, but it's not from the cold. I’m bursting to tell someone before it feels like a dream I made up.

She’s the only one I’d even consider telling, and even then, I’d keep the dirtiest parts to myself. She’s been on the early rotation this week, so I know she’s up. Speech pathologists don’t usually pull dawn hospital shifts, but she’s covering assessments in post-op recovery.

I tap call.

She answers on the third ring, voice rough. “Sloane? Everything okay?”

I lean against the cool wall near the elevator, still a little breathless from my stealth exit. “Depends on your definition of okay.”

Her laugh is instant, a low, knowing sound. “Are you doing the walk of shame? Please tell me your sex drought has officially ended.”

“Tall. Dark and in town for business. I don’t even?—”

The elevator doors open, and a couple in matching tennis whites steps out. Their curious eyes sweep over me and my half-zipped jeans, hair a mess, and last night still written all over my skin.

Predawn tennis? Okay, I guess anything goes in Palm Beach.

My pulse kicks, but I smile and offer a pathetic wave.

“Wait,” Maris says, her tone sharpening, “you sound?—”