Page 64 of Nine Week Nanny

"I've been thinking about doing that again since the moment I saw you standing in my doorway talking to Lennon," he murmurs against my cheek.

"Even when you were pretending not to know me?"

His erection is pressed into me, sending pulses through my body. I'm already wet for him, and it's only a kiss.

"Especially then."

He kisses me again, deeper this time. The restraint from before dissolves, and the hunger for him is insatiable now. His hand slides from my cheek to my neck, thumb tracing my collarbone in a way that makes me shiver.

This is a terrible idea. The best terrible idea I've ever had.

When Pope pulls back, a low growl rumbles in his throat. "Come to bed with me." His voice is a command wrapped in velvet.

He shifts his weight, his thighs bunching beneath me, and plants his feet firmly on the ground. His arms are already around my waist, and with a controlled, graceful motion, he lifts me with him as he rises from the lounge chair.

He grabs the monitor sitting on the table, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his hips, my arms tightening around hisneck. The feeling of being held so securely, of being lifted and carried by him, is intoxicating.

His eyes never leave mine.

He carries me from the patio, through the darkened living room where just hours ago we sat with Lennon, talking about horseshoe crabs and enchiladas.

My heart thuds as we move deeper into the house, down the hallway I've only passed through as an employee.

This isn't a stranger's hotel room with anonymous sheets and borrowed time. This is his home, his space. His thumb traces circles on my lower back as we move, a small intimacy that feels almost more intimate than the kiss.

Halfway down the hall, Pope stops, turning to press me gently against the wall. His kiss is patient but devastating, like he has all the time in the world to unravel me.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he confesses against my neck. "It's driving me crazy."

I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him to me. "I know the feeling."

He makes a sound, a low, sexy hum of desire that vibrates against my skin, as my legs fall to the floor. He takes my hand again and leads me up the stairs. When we reach his door, he pushes it open and cups my face, kissing me.

Pope's lips never leave mine as he guides me through the door, kicking it shut behind us.

Moonlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting his bedroom in silver-blue shadows. The space is minimal but luxurious with a massive bed, clean lines, and dark furniture.

His hands find my waist, fingers splaying across my hips as he breaks our kiss to look at me. His gaze travels slowly from my eyes to my mouth, down my neck, lingering on my chest where my heart hammers against my ribs.

"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "All of you. No rushing this time."

The memory of our first night, frantic, anonymous, clothes barely shed, flashes between us. I set the monitor down on the dresser and reach for the hem of his shirt, my fingers grazing the warm skin beneath. "Your turn first."

He raises his arms, letting me pull the fabric up and over his head. I drop it to the floor, then pause, taking in the sight of him. His chest is broad with muscles, but not showy. A thin trail of dark hair leads down into his pants. A scar curves along his left side, just above his hip.

My fingers trace it lightly. "What's this from?"

"Motorcycle accident in college." His breath catches as my hand moves lower, brushing the waistband of his pants. “Your turn."

He steps closer, gathering the bottom of my blouse in his hands. The thin shirt lifts slowly, his knuckles dragging against my bare skin, goosebumps racing in their wake. When the shirt clears my head, he tosses it aside and stares at the plain white bra that does nothing to hide how hard my nipples strain beneath.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the cup with one finger. The lightest touch still scorches. I arch into it, chasing more.

My hands fumble at his belt. He helps, sliding it free with a metallic scrape that sends a pulse low in my belly.

I shove the button, drag the zipper down, pushing his pants past his hips. He steps out of them, stripped to black briefs that barely contain the length pressing against the silky fabric.

“Christ, Sloane.” He reaches behind me, unhooking my bra in one swift motion. It falls, and his pupils blow wide. “Perfect.”