16. Matilde
Matilde
On Friday night, I’m a bundle of nerves thinking about tomorrow and praying Nico won’t find out about me skipping school. I’m only defying his orders in order to see my sister. So why am I plagued by strange fantasies about him catching me?
A cry in the dark drags me from my bed, and I beat Nico to the nursery this time. I’m changing Amadeo’s diaper when he enters, still dressed in his three-piece suit. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him so rumpled and creased, and his tie is askew.
When he paces into the room, something dark lurks behind those gray eyes. He notes his t-shirt I wore to bed with obvious admiration. Most of my legs are exposed, and he doesn’t bother hiding his perusal of them.
A warning whispers ‘Run,’ but monsters love to chase, don’t they?
And girls can enjoy being devoured now and then, a more devious voice whispers in my mind.
“I have him if you want to get some rest,” I offer. Nico doesn’t speak. While I’m distracted looking at him, Amadeo decides he’s not finished peeing. “Merda,” I mutter, looking down at the wet spot on my shirt.
“Get another one from my bedroom.”
“I have pajamas.”
“You’ll get another one of my shirts, Matilde.” A delicious shudder races down my spine from his gruff command.
After my nod, he removes his suit jacket, vest and tie, crossing the room to look at his daughter sleeping peacefully. He undoes his cufflinks as I carry Amadeo to the rocking chair to soothe. Rolling up his sleeves, he reveals those powerful forearms. Why is my mouth suddenly dry?
Watching me rock his son, he moves back to the doorway, bracing his hands above his head in a way that makes my thighs clench together.
Does he want to chat? Does he want to take over?
I can’t tell. I hum a lullaby for Amadeo while his father tilts his head to the side and continues studying me.
What is he thinking? Why do I hope it’s something naughty?
Grasping for a safe topic of conversation, I glance at the cufflinks he laid on the dresser. “You have many pairs of those.”
“Been keeping count? Planning to steal them?”
“No! And yes. I noticed.” Dio, he makes every conversation a trial.
“Birthday gifts from my siblings.”
“That is nice. You still exchange gifts. I love my brace-”
“I need a shower,” he cuts in. “Come fetch a fresh shirt after you’ve laid him back down.”
Just like that, he picks up his things and leaves. Did I say something wrong?
Once Amadeo is in his crib again, I leave the nursery. Every shred of common sense tells me to go back to my own room while every fiber of my being can’t resist temptation.
A folded blue t-shirt lays on top of the duvet. The shower is running, and the bathroom door is almost closed. A thin silver of light falls across the carpet as I pad closer.
“Are you in there, sir?” I call. Very quietly. Of course, he is. I don’t want him to answer. I don’t want him to know I’m here. Not really. Well maybe. “I’m losing my mind.”
Without overthinking it (or thinking at all), I tug the soiled shirt off and toss it in his clothes hamper before putting on the fresh one.
It’s buttery soft cotton and comfortably broken in.
But it doesn’t smell enough like Nico. The water is still running, so I glide over to his bureau, picking up his cologne.
I rub some between my wrists, inhaling deeply.
How can a fragrance stir me this way? I apply more over my throat, and, in another moment of lunacy, I lift the shirt enough to rub some over my hips.
“You drive me fucking crazy.”
I jump like I’ve been shot, hearing his voice. Is he talking to me? How can he even see me? At least I understand now it's only an expression.
For what seems like an eternity, I’m frozen in place, waiting for him to call again or pounce from the shadows, but the shower continues, and my feet have a mind of their own, creeping closer to that narrow opening in the doorway.
He doesn't speak again. Maybe he was talking to himself or holding a conversation in his head.
My pulse thunders between my ears when I feel the humid air touching my face.
Or is it because of the figure behind the glass shower door?
It’s steamy, but I see a lot. His body is a source of boundless curiosity for me.
Not just the muscles, the masculine beauty, and that very nice ass but also how gracefully he moves.
He turns toward the water, rinsing soap from his eyes while his hand drops down between his legs again.
His three legs? No, not three. His penis is erect and he’s touching it.
My mouth falls open, and I feel like I can’t breathe.
Dio, that thing is too large. Maybe the shower door messes with my perception, like the side mirrors on cars.
But I want to move closer. See more. Say something. Get a reaction. Find out if that thing is as big as it looks. My cheeks are already scalding hot at the realization of what I’m seeing and what he’s doing, but I want… more. I want to know what it's like.
Pressing myself against the doorway, ready to flee at any moment, my hand slips down between my legs, under the t-shirt and inside my cotton panties.
It’s warm and damp there, just like it must be in his shower.
Lightly stroking my pussy lips, I close my eyes and wonder what his hand would feel like if it was him touching me instead.
Would it hurt? Or feel good? Do couples do that?
Touch each other to give pleasure? Would Nico?
I’ll bet he did with his wife. But you? You’re the nanny. Why would he care about your pleasure? He’d only take his own.
The sobering thought makes my stomach knot up as my rational mind finally regains control.
I’m invading his privacy. I’m a creepy peeper.
I can hear Cosima Barzetti referring to me as ‘the help’ inside my head and Paola and her friends calling me the Capo’s Charity Case.
Worst of all, I imagine my stepmother’s horrified voice, saying she always knew I would turn out to be as sinful as my mother.
Frustrated and frowning, I pull my hand out of my underwear and open my eyes… just in time to see Nico staring at me through the glass shower door. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Unleashing a horrified scream, I stumble backwards, slipping on the tile and falling hard on my butt. This has to be a nightmare!
But it isn't, and he's already hovering over me with a towel wrapped around his waist before I can scramble to my feet.
"That looked painful."
"I…" How do I even begin to apologize for this?
"I meant what you were doing, not the fall."
My jaw drops, and a denial jumps out. "I do nothing!"
"Matilde, you've already been sneaking around in my bedroom tonight. Don't add lying to your list of transgressions."
Realizing he's enjoying my utter mortification, I glare at him. "You told me to get shirt from your room! You made me come!"
"No, I told you to get a shirt. I didn't make you come. If I had, you wouldn't look this frustrated."
The merest flicker of amusement dances in his eyes, and I want the ground to open up and swallow me. "You are a hateful man."
"And you drive me crazy, tesoro. Now, unless you want a lesson in what you were trying, and failing, to accomplish a moment ago, I suggest you leave my bedroom. Now."