Chapter 17
DIANA
My tongue burns with what is probably my fourth cup of coffee. I tell myself, as I sip, that I’m trying to sear off Bruno’s taste from my mouth, and not because I need the coffee since I stayed up the entire night thinking of last night’s epic, mind-blowing—and probably stupid—sex.
Sex—sex with Bruno—that had robbed me of all air, that sent electricity through every fiber of my being. It had made my toes curl and my heart threaten to leap out of my chest, and when I had dazedly stumbled to my bed afterward, all I was capable of was laying down, staring absently at the ceiling, while my mind replayed the image of Bruno’s mouth on my pussy and then his cock inside of me. Over and over and over again. It was on a loop all fucking night, never giving me a moment of reprieve. My lips tingled all night where Bruno had touched them, my pussy still throbbing for him long after, and my mind racing relentlessly.
Mostly, with just one thought: what the fuck happened?
We had sex. Despite all of my thoughts about the man—how incredibly sexy he was, how my heart skipped a beat or two every time he walked into the room, how I craved for him to touch me—Bruno had been the one to make the first move. And that, I hadn’t seen coming. I always figured that I would make a fool out of myself and say or do something that would mortify me and probably get me fired. But no. Bruno took that playbook, threw it out of the window, and took the reins into his own hands.
I’m not surprised. Everything about that man screams that he likes to take control. It isn’t surprising that he made the first move.
But, then again, it is, because I didn’t think, for one second, that he was attracted to me in any kind of way. I’d thought I was nothing but his nanny.
And then I’d begun thinking about that night at his club when he’d watched me dance with someone else. How he’d gotten a challenging look in his eyes, how he wouldn’t look away. I had wanted him to be the one I’d been dancing with—was it possible that he had wanted the same thing, too?
When I first thought of that after that night at the club, I’d told myself I was being foolish and ridiculous. But after last night, I’m not so sure anymore.
Because of the orgasms he gave me? They were unlike any other I’ve ever had. I felt them deep in my bones. The way he practically devoured me, the way the heat of his body radiated into my own. How I felt completely shattered in the best way possible afterward. When we were done, he’d looked at me with such heat in those brown eyes that didn’t ever seem to be satiated. I’m not sure if it had been a trick of the dim lighting, but his eyes had appeared even darker afterward. They had sent waves of pleasure right down to my core.
More. I want more already, greedily, desperately.
Kissing was one thing, even if it was a boundary crossed. Anything more than that, and I don’t think we can come back from it. We can’t. It’s happened. There’s no going backward.
But, God, despite all rationality and logic, I am so fucking glad we crossed that line.
I want to feel Bruno’s surprisingly soft lips on other parts of me, to feel the coarse hairs of his beard scratch against my skin. For longer than I care to admit, I wanted him to touch me everywhere, to feel his fingers dig into me. God, how I had wanted him inside of me, so badly.
I finally got what I wanted, and it was not enough. It never will be. I need more.
I’m pulled out of my lust-driven thoughts by the sound of my phone ringing. I’m sitting on the daybed in the twins’ playroom, while the two of them are at their desks, getting some schoolwork done. I put my mug of coffee down and look at my phone, seeing that it’s Cathy who is calling me. I want to tell her what the hell happened—but not with Bruno’s kids in the room with me.
“What’s up?” I greet, leaning back with my free hand pressing on the bed.
“Oh, my God, Diana!” Cathy exclaims on the other end, and my back straightens, eyebrows shooting up.
“Cathy? What’s wrong?” I ask, alarmed. I can’t tell by her tone of voice if her oh, my God is good news or bad news.
She laughs, and it relaxes me a bit. “Nothing’s wrong!” she says, and I can just picture the wide grin on her face because I can hear it in my voice. “I’m pregnant!”
My eyes widen at her words, jaw-dropping and, before I can help myself, I’m practically shrieking, “What? Oh, my God—congrats!”
The sudden volume of my voice startles Monica and Matteo, who both whip their heads toward me curiously. I shoot them a sheepish smile, mouthing sorry before gesturing for them to continue their work. They slowly turn back around, and I tune back into Cathy’s ecstatic squealing.
“I’d been feeling weird since this morning and, you know, we’ve been actively trying to get pregnant, so I have a bunch of tests laying around,” she explains. She already sounds breathless from her excitement, and it spreads warmth through my chest. My smile remains on my face as she continues, “So I decided to take a test on the off chance, you know? But then it came back positive and I didn’t believe it so I took another and that also came back positive!”
“Oh, my God,” I laugh, my genuine happiness for my friend making my eyes sear. She’s been wanting this for so long, and I press a hand to the top of my head in disbelief. “I’m so happy for you, Cathy.” Softly, I add, “You’re going to be a great mom.”
“Coming from you means a lot,” Cathy says, her voice also growing soft. My chest tightens as she adds, “You’re the baby whisperer so, yeah, that means a lot.”
“Stop, you’re going to make me cry,” I say through a watery laugh, fanning my face to keep the tears at bay. “If you need anything, I’m just a phone call away, alright?”
Cathy laughs gently. “I know, thank you.” She blows out a breath. “Alright, I have to tell everyone else. You’re just one of my first phone calls.”
I grin. “Have fun,” I quip. “And, again, Cathy—congratulations.”
“Thanks, Diana. I love you!”
“Love you, too,” I chuckle before hanging up. I drop my phone, shaking my head and blowing out a breath.
“What happened?” Monica asks, and I see that she and her brother are both watching me once again with curious expressions.
I smile at them, grabbing my mug. “My friend just called to tell me that she’s having a baby,” I explain. “So, I’m just really happy for her.”
Matteo nods. “That’s cool,” he says. Sometimes, the five-year-old boy can be so cool and collected, he reminds me so much of his dad.
My heart twists at the thought of Bruno, but then Monica catches my attention. “Babies are cute,” she says with a wide, toothy grin. Then she tilts her head, looking up at me with innocent green eyes as she asks, “When will you have a baby, Diana?”
Her question makes me choke on my sip of coffee, completely catching me off guard. “Um—”
Matteo hops onto Monica’s question. “Will you still take care of us if you have a baby?”
For some reason, my face feels like it’s on fire. When my startled cough subsides, I put the mug down and look at the siblings. “Uh, I’m not sure when I’ll have a baby,” I answer carefully. Dear God, this isn’t a conversation I expected to have today. “So, you know, you don’t have to worry about me not taking care of you just yet.”
The reality is, I do want to someday have kids—of course, I do. I’ve spent my life taking care of other people’s children, and I want to someday settle down and take care of my own. To be a mother instead of a nanny. But when will that be? With who—
“I know!” Matteo suddenly speaks up. Now, he looks much more animated than his father, his dark green eyes glimmering with the beginnings of an idea as he looks from his sister to me. He grins as he says, “You and daddy should have a baby! Then, you can stay with us, and we’ll have a baby brother!”
Monica nudges him, frowning. “Or baby sister!”
That has the two of them dissolving into arguing about what’s better, a baby brother or a baby sister. But the twins are completely oblivious to the stupor they’ve thrown me in, gaping at them in incredulity while my heart threatens to jump out of my chest and out of the second-story window.
You and daddy should have a baby!
I don’t even know how knowledgeable Monica and Matteo are in terms of where babies come from, but judging by Matteo’s words, they know it takes two to tango. But those same words echo in my head, throat dry at the not-so-innocent image Matteo’s innocent idea puts in my head—the image of what Bruno and I did last night. It’s easy to get attached to such lovely kids, and Monica and Matteo are no exception to it. But knowing they like me enough to want me around all of the time, to the point where they suggest I have a baby with their father, is overwhelming.
Of course, I understand they’re just kids who don’t know the severity of the idea they’re throwing around, but it settles deep into my head, and I can’t hope to get the image out. A life with Bruno—why can I imagine myself having that so easily? What we did last night certainly doesn’t help matters, and now this.
As much as I try to tell myself all of the reasons that it would never work—because he’s seventeen years older than me, because he’s all rough edges while I’m not, because I’m just his employee, because he’s, for all intents and purposes, a criminal—I know it’s fruitless. Rationality seems to take a backseat as I let myself drift into the fantasy of imagining a life with him, with the twins.
Raising them as more than just their nanny. Being with Bruno—kissing him, touching him, loving him, and having him love me in return. . .
He’s capable of it—of love. I’ve seen it when he looks at his children. It’s a different kind of love, sure, but it’s there. He loved his late wife—I can tell he did.
Would he be able to love me?
I inhale sharply. Get a hold of yourself, Diana. These are all musings of a crazy woman. Last night could very well have only been a one-off. Besides, how many shows depict unhinged nannies who grow inappropriate attachments for the children they’re looking after, inappropriate feelings for their fathers? I cringe—how much porn is made of this exact scenario? Of nannies or babysitters with the fathers?
God, I don’t want to be one of those people—even though I kind of already am.
And yet, I think of Bruno, and my heart does a stupid leap in my chest. Maybe I am fucked.
In more ways than one.