10. Chapter 10
Tom Peterson pulled the Mercedes into the drive, his jaw tight.
He’d spent the entire morning parading his boys around, sitting them on his knee in front of his VPs, spinning some nonsense about “the next generation” of Peterson Industries.
The idiots had clapped, smiled, and pretended to fawn, because that was what they were paid to do.
But inside, Tom had been grinding his teeth.
His kids were brats. Loud, restless, squirming every second.
He’d taken them out to lunch afterward, an expensive steakhouse downtown, and they’d embarrassed him there too—spilling juice, whining about the menu, fighting over the bread basket.
He’d had to laugh it off in front of his colleagues, as if it was endearing.
As if he wasn’t ready to throttle them by the time dessert was served.
And now, after dumping his boys with the nanny, his temper grew hotter. He could already hear Naomi’s soft, sweet voice carrying through the hall and it irritated him.
She sounded…happy.
That grated. How could she sound so damn cheerful when he’d had to deal with those two monsters for hours?
He stalked into the living room and stopped, watching from the doorway.
Naomi was curled on the sofa, her legs tucked under her, a book open across her lap.
The boys leaned against her, one on each side, their heads resting against her arms, their eyes drooping as she read out loud to the two brats who had been obnoxious beasts just a few minutes ago.
Now, they pretended to be the picture of domestic bliss.
His lip curled.
These two hellions were going to take over his business? He snorted with disdain. As if the little brats would ever be intelligent enough to take over his empire. The older one couldn’t even read yet. Who the hell fails the entrance exam for kindergarten? Tom’s jaw clenched. Pathetic.
And Naomi, what was she really doing? Reading. Reading! Yeah, she was reading out loud to the kids but…? For that, he was paying her more than most professionals earned in a month. Babysitting. Story time. Coddling.
Turning away, his irritation boiling, Tom retreated to his office. He shut the door, settled into the leather chair behind his desk, and pulled his laptop closer. A few clicks, and the browser filled with tabs he knew by heart. Porn sites.
He scrolled impatiently, dismissing one thumbnail after another. Nothing appealed. Not until he found a video—a dark-haired woman with her hair tied back, her features faintly resembling his nanny.
“Close enough,” he muttered, clicking.
His body responded quickly, fueled by irritation and fantasy in equal measure. It didn’t take long until his release washed over him. A few minutes later, he sat back with a satisfied sigh, closing the tab before the fake moaning became grating.
But as the post-release fog cleared, his lip curled again.
Videos weren’t enough.
He wanted Naomi.
The real thing.
And sooner or later, he’d have her.