Chapter 21 Jess
Jess
It’s nine thirty at night and I’m debriefing in Marco’s kitchen and pretending my panties aren’t wet.
At all.
We’re supposed to be discussing Ben’s progress. Her meltdown frequency. Whether the Brave Rules are actually working or if we’re just lucky she hasn’t completely spiraled yet.
It’s supposed to be a totally normal employer-employee conversation.
Except Marco’s leaning against the counter in tight T-shirt (black of course), and I’m perched on a barstool trying very hard not to notice how the kitchen lighting makes his biceps and forearms look like they were carved by someone with a very specific agenda.
“She used the breathing technique three times today without prompting,” I’m saying, flipping through my notes like they’re suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Once in the hallway at school. Once before snack. And once when Frederick fell off the counter.”
“Frederick fell?” Marco’s eyebrow lifts.
“Tragic stuffed snail accident. We held a brief memorial service. Ben gave a eulogy. It was very moving.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “You’re good with her.”
“I’m okay with her,” I correct. Because accepting compliments feels like tempting fate. Like the universe will notice I’m doing well and immediately yank the rug out from under me.
When you’re so used to failure that success feels like a setup.
“You’re more than okay.” His voice drops. Gets quieter. More intimate. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to us in two years.”
My face heats instantly. Full stop. I can feel the blush creeping up my neck like a police light that flashes ‘EMOTIONALLY COMPROMISED.’
“That’s just the relief talking,” I deflect. “Because your last nanny quit and you were desperate.”
“Jess.”
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “Desperation makes everyone look good. It’s basic psychology.”
“Stop.”
I shut my mouth. Look up at him.
He’s giving me a look that makes my stomach do its butterfly thing.
“You don’t take compliments well,” he observes.
“I take them fine. I just don’t believe them.” The honesty slips out before I can stop it. “People say nice things when they want something. Or when they’re being polite. It doesn’t usually mean anything real.”
His jaw tightens. “It means something when I say it.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Entering dangerous territory...
I should change the subject. Should pivot back to Ben. Should do literally anything except sit here feeling like my entire body is tuned to a frequency only he can hear.
Instead I say, “Yeah?”
His eyes never leave mine. “Yeah.”
The word hangs between us. Heavy. Loaded with a million layers of subtext that we’re both pretending not to notice.
My underwear feels wetter than ever.
I clear my throat. Stand. “I should go. It’s late. And you probably have early calls or whatever billionaire restaurateurs do before sunrise.”
He doesn’t move. “Jess.”
I’m already gathering my notebook. My bag. My phone. Anything to keep my hands busy so they don’t do something stupid like reach for him. “Seriously. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ben’s library day so I need to remember her book and—”
“Jess.”
I freeze.
He’s moved closer.
When did he move closer?
Now he’s right there. In my space. Close enough that I can smell him. That bitter orange and espresso and cedar that shouldn’t be this distracting but absolutely is.
“We need to talk about this,” he says quietly.
“Talk about what?” I’m going for casual. Landing somewhere near panicked. “Ben’s doing great. The Brave Kitchen pilot went well. The Family Meal Mondays expansion is on track. Everything’s fine.”
He doesn’t back down. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then I don’t know what you mean,” I lie.
His hand lifts. Just slightly. And his thumb finds my jaw.
Oh God.
This is happening.
This is actually happening.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he murmurs.
I should step back. Should enforce the boundaries we very clearly established. Should remember the contract we both signed that explicitly prohibits this exact scenario.
Instead I whisper, “We shouldn’t.”
“We won’t,” he replies.
And then his mouth is on mine.
Narrator voice: They absolutely did.
The kiss isn’t gentle. Isn’t tentative. It’s desperate and messy and everything I’ve been trying not to think about since he last held me in his arms and fucked the living shit out of me.
His hand slides into my hair. My hands find his chest. The notebook falls to the floor with a thud that neither of us acknowledges.
He tastes like espresso and something darker. Something that makes my brain go offline and my body take over.
I press closer. He backs me against the counter. The edge digs into my lower back but I don’t care because his other hand is at my waist now, fingers pressing through my shirt, and I’m making sounds I should probably be embarrassed about.
His mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. I tilt my head back to give him access and he takes it. Teeth scraping. Tongue soothing. My entire nervous system lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree.
“Marco,” I breathe.
He groans against my skin. The sound goes straight between my legs.
Fuck if I thought my pussy was wet before...
His hand slides under my shirt. Warm palm against bare skin. I arch into the touch and he makes that sound again. That low, rough sound that makes me want to climb him like a tree and forget every rule we ever made.
I’m tugging at his T-shirt. Trying to get it off. Trying to feel skin on skin. Trying to—
He stops.
Just stops.
Pulls back so fast I nearly stumble.
We’re both breathing hard. Staring at each other. His hair is a mess from my hands. His lips are swollen. His eyes are dark and dilated and full of things I don’t want to name.
“We can’t,” he says. His voice is wrecked. “Jess. We can’t do this.”
Reality crashes back in like cold water.
The contract. Ethan. Ben. Every single reason this is a terrible idea.
But we did it before...
I banish the voice.
“Right.” I’m straightening my shirt. Trying to look like I didn’t just almost violate several different workplace policies. Again. “Yeah. You’re right. That was—”
“Stupid.”
The word stings more than it should.
“Super stupid,” I agree, forcing brightness into my voice. “Momentary lapse in judgment. Won’t happen again.”
He’s already backing toward the doorway. Putting distance between us. “I should—I need to—”
“Go,” I tell him. “Yeah. Go.”
He leaves. Just walks out of the kitchen like his pants are on fire.
Or you could stay...
I stand there for a full minute trying to remember how to breathe.
I grab my stuff. Shove everything into my bag with hands that are definitely shaking.
In the hallway, I hear his voice. On the phone.
“Ethan? You still up? Yeah. I need the mat. Now.”
The mat. Jiu-Jitsu. He’s calling my brother to go fight because he’d rather get choked out than finish what we started.
So he’d rather fight than fuck.
Cool.
Totally cool.
Not humiliating at all.
I let myself out the front door. Jag’s waiting by the Range Rover. He takes one look at my face and doesn’t ask questions. Just opens the door and waits for me to climb in.
The ride home is silent. I stare out the window and try not to replay the last ten minutes. Try not to think about how good he tasted. How his hands felt. How my entire body is still buzzing with want.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Actually, maybe this is good. Maybe him stopping was exactly what needed to happen. Boundaries exist for a reason. We can’t just keep crossing lines whenever the tension gets too high.
Even if his mouth is magic and I want him so badly it physically hurts.
I make it inside my apartment. Lock the door. Lean against it for a solid thirty seconds.
Then I head straight for the bathroom.
The shower is scalding. Exactly what I need. I stand under the spray and let the heat work into my muscles.
My hand immediately drifts south.
When your coping mechanism is tactical masturbation.
I’m not proud. But I’m also not stopping.
I close my eyes and let the steam wrap around me. I imagine his thumb, rough and possessive, tracing the line of my jaw. His mouth crashing into mine. Not a question, but a demand, stealing my breath. The way he groaned, my body begging for more even as my mind screamed stop.
My fingers slide down, finding my clit already swollen and throbbing, slick with the heat I’ve carried since the kitchen. Since him.
“God, he really soaks me,” I whisper to the tiles, my voice lost in the spray. My pussy’s not just wet... it’s an all-out ache, a pulsing need that coils tighter with every drop of water tracing my skin.
I imagine his hands replacing mine. Not gentle.
Not patient. Shoving me hard against the shower wall, the cold porcelain biting into my back as his hips pin me there.
His mouth, relentless, trailing down my throat.
Nipping, sucking, leaving marks that scream mine, before blazing a path over my collarbone, then my breasts, his tongue swirling around a nipple until I’m gasping and writhing and so close to the edge I could scream.
“Fuck, yes, yes,” I moan, my fingers working faster, matching the rhythm I crave from him. “Fuck me Marco.”
Then he’s on his knees, water sluicing over the hard lines of his shoulders as his hands spread my thighs wide.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and hungry, before his mouth finds me, hot, wet, devouring.
His tongue lashing my clit in rough, perfect circles, then plunging deep inside me, fucking me with it while his thumb presses just right.
I can almost hear his growl vibrating against my skin: “You taste like heaven, Jess. Fucking perfect.”
I cum the first time with a cry, my pussy clenching around my own fingers, the force of it buckling my knees. But he doesn’t stop. In my fantasy, he rises, his cock, so thick, so hard, presses against my entrance.
“Look at me,” he orders, and I obey, drowning in those eyes.
Then he slams into me, filling me so completely I sob his name. His hips piston, relentless, each thrust dragging me higher. My fingers mimic his own motions, frantically abusing my pussy.
“That’s it, take it all. My good girl.”
A second orgasm shatters me, then a third when I imagine his teeth at my ear, his voice raw and wrecked: “Cum for me again. I want to feel you break.”
And I do. I break. Wave after wave tear through me, my body convulsing, my cries echoing off the tiles.
I’m staggering and gasping and maybe crying a little but that’s fine because I’m in the shower so no one can tell.
Masturbating to your boss? Maybe it’s fucked up. But right now, with my pulse still thundering and my skin still singing, I don’t give a damn.
I let the tremors subside, my breath ragged but finally steady. Then I reach for the faucet, cutting the water. Silence floods in, heavy and real. I wrap the towel around myself, the coarse fabric a sudden anchor to the world outside my steam-clouded dream.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about tomorrow. About how I have to show up at his house and act normal.
Act like I don’t know exactly how he tastes.
My phone buzzes.
Marco.
I’m sorry.
I stare at those two words forever.
Sorry for what? For kissing me? For stopping? For making me want him so badly I can barely function?
Me too, I type back.
The truth is I’m not sorry about the kiss. I’m sorry we have to pretend it didn’t happen. Sorry we can’t have what we both clearly want.
Sorry that wanting him feels like betrayal.
His response is immediate: Tomorrow you’ll still be there?
Tomorrow, I confirm.
Because what else can I do? Quit? Run? Admit that I’m in way over my head and falling for a man I can never actually have?
No.
I’m going to show up. Do my job. Take care of Ben. Keep the boundaries intact.
Even if every cell in my body is screaming to finish what we started.
Even if I have to masturbate to his imaginary cock and scream his name when I’m alone in the shower for the rest of my life.
I turn off my phone.
Bury my face in my pillow.