Page 15 of The Minotaur’s Nanny Bride (Minotaur Daddies #2)

15

MAYA

I open the door to Ellis's room just a crack, watching as Dex lowers the baby into his crib. Seven weeks of this arrangement, and I still find myself mesmerized by how those massive hands—hands that could crush stone—can be so impossibly gentle with something so small.

"Sleep tight, little one," Dex whispers, his deep voice barely audible as he adjusts Ellis's blanket.

The domesticity of it all hits me like a physical ache. This isn't mine. None of this. I'm just here until Dex finds someone permanent, someone who makes sense for his life. Not an herb farmer with dirt perpetually under her fingernails and a family history better left forgotten.

I step back, waiting in the hallway's shadows as Dex backs carefully from the room. He's learned to avoid the creaky floorboard by the door—a small triumph we celebrated with awkward high-fives three weeks ago. The memory makes my chest tighten.

When he emerges, closing the door with practiced precision, his green eyes find mine instantly. Surprise flickers across his face, followed by something darker.

"Maya? Everything alright?"

Instead of answering, I step forward. My body moves before my brain can stop it, closing the distance between us. Dex's fur rises slightly—a minute tell I've learned means he's caught off guard. I need to say something. Explain why I'm standing here, invading his space, breathing in the scent of him—something earthy and warm that's become as familiar as my own herbs.

But words fail me completely.

My hand lifts, seemingly of its own accord, pressing against the broad expanse of his chest. His heart thunders beneath my palm. I slide my fingers up, through the coarse outer layer of his fur to the softer down beneath, feeling the heat of him.

"What are you doing?" His voice drops an octave, a rumble that vibrates through my fingertips.

What am I doing? Breaking every rule I've set for myself. Jeopardizing an arrangement that works. Setting myself up for inevitable heartbreak because this—whatever this is—has an expiration date.

Yet I can't stop.

Something in Dex's expression shifts, patience crumbling like a dam giving way. One moment he's standing perfectly still, muscles tight with restraint; the next, he's in motion, backing me down the hall toward my room with the unstoppable force of an avalanche.

My back hits the doorframe, then I'm stumbling backward as he guides me inside with one hand splayed across my lower back. The other pushes the door closed with a decisive click.

"Tell me to stop," he says, but it sounds more like a plea than a command.

I remain silent. I've made my choice.

The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I sink down, Dex following, his massive frame caging me in. The bed creaks under our combined weight as he settles between my legs, green eyes never leaving mine.

"I've wanted you," he admits, voice rough. "More than I should."

No kiss follows the confession. I feel a pang of disappointment mixed with relief. Kissing would make this something else—something with promises neither of us is in a position to keep. This way is safer. Cleaner. It's all physical, which is really what it should be.

His hands push at my dress, bunching the fabric around my waist with surprising deftness. I lift my hips to help, practical as always, even in this most impractical moment.

"Let me," he murmurs, sliding down my body until his broad shoulders spread my thighs wider.

I barely recognize the sound that escapes me—needy, vulnerable—as his breath warms my inner thigh. Those careful hands that cradle Ellis with such tenderness now grip my hips with possession, thumbs pressing into my skin with just enough pressure to mark, to claim.

Then his mouth is on me, and the practical, level-headed woman I pride myself on being dissolves completely. His tongue moves with deliberate precision, like he's cataloging every reaction, learning what makes my breath catch and my back arch.

One broad hand splays across my stomach, holding me in place while he tastes me like I'm some rare herb worth savoring. My fingers find his horns, curling around the polished bronze rings adorning them for purchase in this storm.

I grip his horns tighter as the pressure builds, sensation shooting through my body like lightning. My heels dig into his broad back, thighs trembling against his cheeks. I've always prided myself on control—in my herb shop measuring precise amounts, in my life keeping everyone at a safe distance—but Dex strips it away with each deliberate stroke of his tongue.

"Dex," I gasp, a warning or a plea, I'm not sure which.

He responds by gripping my hips more firmly, the slight prick of his nails against my skin sending another wave of heat through me. His tongue moves with devastating precision, finding the exact rhythm that makes my vision blur.

I'm unraveling, coming apart under his ministrations. Logic and reason scatter like seeds in a storm. I arch against him, my body tensed like a bowstring about to snap. His name falls from my lips again, more desperate this time.

When I finally break, it's with an intensity that startles me. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, my body pulsing against his mouth. I cry out, not caring who might hear, fingers clutching his horns for dear life as the world fractures into brilliant fragments of sensation.

Dex groans deeply, the vibration extending my pleasure, his hands gripping my thighs harder as he continues to taste me through my climax. The sound he makes is primal, hungry—like he can't get enough. Like he could do this for hours and never be satisfied.

The moment feels perfect, suspended between heartbeats—me sprawled breathless across the bed, him between my thighs like he belongs there. For one fleeting moment, I imagine what it would be like if this weren't temporary. If this room were truly mine, if Ellis were?—

The thought disappears as Dex suddenly pulls away. His breathing comes in sharp, ragged bursts, chest heaving beneath the soft golden fur. When he looks up at me, something flickers in his expression—something almost pained, conflicted.

I reach for him, wanting to chase away that shadow, but he's already moving. Rising to his full height, he towers over the bed, running a hand over his horns—where my fingers had just been moments ago.

"I should go," he says, voice rougher than I've ever heard it.

Before I can form a response—before I can even sit up—he's turning away. The soft click of the door feels as final as a thunderclap.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, heart racing beneath my ribs like a trapped bird. My body still pulses with aftershocks, skin hypersensitive, but a chill slowly creeps through me despite the warmth of the room. What just happened? And why did it feel like so much more than just physical release?

I know better than this. I've always been the practical one, the one who sees things as they are, not how I wish them to be. This arrangement with Dex was supposed to be straightforward—I help with Ellis, he pays me, and eventually, he finds a proper nanny. Someone who makes sense for his life. Someone who isn't me.

Yet here I am, getting attached to both of them. Ellis with his curious eyes and tiny hands that clutch at my hair. Dex with his gentle strength and unexpected moments of vulnerability. They're becoming my world, these two, filling spaces in my heart I'd walled off after my family cast me out.

My fingers trace the scar on my right hand—the permanent reminder of why I shouldn't get too comfortable. Of why I don't belong in fancy houses with prominent merchants. My family made that perfectly clear when I chose to heal that minotaur child instead of letting him suffer.

I roll to my side, pulling my knees to my chest. This will end in heartbreak. Dex will find someone suitable—someone from his own world, someone who can navigate minotaur society without causing whispers. And I'll go back to my herbs and my solitary farm, pretending I never knew what it felt like to be part of something that mattered.

The worst part? I can't even blame him. He's doing what's best for Ellis. What's best for his future.

I just wish, selfishly perhaps, that I could be part of that future too.