Chapter 15 #3
Our tongues stroke and spar, our hands everywhere as the self-control shatters on both sides. My hands slide down, over the curve of her waist, gripping her ass, shifting position until the ridge of my erection grinds over her clit.
She cries out, soft and low, her nails biting through the cotton of my shirt as she clings to me. “Yes, yes,” she pants. “God, Dean, don’t stop.”
I don’t.
I don’t even think about it.
I fuck her mouth with my tongue while I ride her through our clothes, every hitch of her breath driving me closer to the edge. At this rate, I’m going to come in my pants like a teenager, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Not right now. Not when I can tell she’s about to explode.
I skim a hand up under her pathetic excuse for a shirt, planning to tug down her bra, only to discover she’s not wearing one.
Fuck, she’s not wearing a bra, and now my head is fully spinning as I palm the perfect weight of her, her nipple pulling tight beneath my thumb.
I rub, roll, and pinch until she whimpers low in her throat, and her hips work more frantically against mine.
An uncivilized sound bursts from my chest as I fight the urge to lose it, a groan like a mountain man who’s been wandering the woods for years without a woman in sight.
And now, the sexiest woman on earth is not only in sight, but she’s in my arms, her skin hot on mine, about two seconds away from coming for me.
God, I need her to come for me.
I need it so bad, and I need to feel it. I need her pussy soaking my fingers again like that night in my truck.
I reach between us with shaking hands. Pop the button on her jeans. Drag the zipper down and shove my fingers into her panties. And fuck. Fuck, she’s soaked—drenched and so ready to take me—that I’m tempted to open my own zipper. To fuck her against the wall.
But thank God some shred of common sense prevails.
I can’t risk getting caught with my pants down at a family pizza center…but I can risk two fingers in this slick little cunt. This slick, tight, perfect cunt that instantly starts to clutch around me as I grind my thumb against Clover’s clit.
“Dean,” she gasps, beginning to tremble. “Oh, Dean. Oh, God, yes. Yes!”
I pull back just enough to see her face—I need to see her, need to imprint every second of this into my permanent memory—to find her jaw dropped and her throat working. Then she winces hard, her head falling back with a cry as the wave hits.
Her pussy pulses around my fingers, coating my hand with more slickness as I rasp, “Beautiful, you’re so fucking beautiful. Look at me, Clover. Look at me while I make you come.”
Her eyes crack open, her gaze locking with mine as I continue to fuck her with my hand, until she’s shaking and sobbing and coming for me a second time.
Until I’m not sure either of us will survive much more of this.
I gentle my touch, holding her up as she sucks air, barely able to stand myself as she rides the wave back down to earth.
By the time she’s upright on her own, I’m pretty sure every drop of blood in my body is throbbing in my cock, in my balls, now so swollen and full, it’s painful.
“Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for my jeans.
Before I can form a coherent thought, she’s popped open my fly and reached inside, her fingers closing around my suffering length.
I cry out, hips jerking forward of their own free will. Even her hot skin feels cool against the burning length of me, and when she sinks to her knees, it’s all I can do not to let it happen.
But then I think about her leg. Being down on her knees on hard tile is going to hurt her. Then, I think about my girls and about how deeply this is going to hurt them, even if I don’t get caught in a compromising position and hauled away by the NOPD.
I’ve already crossed a potentially fatal line.
But if I let their nanny blow me in a back hallway? If I come down her throat with my hands fisted in her curls? There will be no coming back from that.
I will never be able to face Clover over the breakfast table the same way again, and my girls will likely lose the one person who’s made “getting back to normal” seem like something that could actually happen for our family.
And family is the most important thing.
Way more important than getting my rocks off or even starting something with a woman I care about more and more with every passing day.
It doesn’t matter how much I care about Clover. We are math that doesn’t math—an unsolvable, flawed equation—and the fact that I let that slip my mind for even a moment is unforgivable.
“Wait, we can’t,” I grunt, the words rough, pained as I close my hands around her upper arms and lift her back to her feet before her lips can move a centimeter closer to my crotch.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “We’re alone. No one will see. It’s okay.”
She reaches for me again, but I dodge her, stepping back to tuck myself into my jeans. “It’s not that,” I say, zipping up with a wince. “It’s us. It’s the girls. It’s… This was a mistake.”
Her expression shifts, confusion morphing into irritation, then hurt as she says, “Was it? It didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt…” She shakes her head, her throat working for a beat.
“I know we agreed to keep things professional, Dean, but nothing has ever felt as good as it feels when you touch me. Surely that has to count for something?”
“But what? What does it count for?” I ask, my voice still rough.
“You don’t date men with children, and I can’t just fuck you, Clover.
I can’t fuck the nanny on the side like some cheesy middle-aged movie star having a mid-life crisis, and, I…
I just…” I pull out my wallet before I confess that I’m in love with her and make things even worse.
I find a hundred and press it into her hand.
“For a cab home and overtime pay for taking the girls to the game tonight. Stay as long as you want, have fun, and just… Just be safe.”
I flee for the door, just like Roid Rage before me.
Only I’m not fleeing a man threatening to punch my face in. I’m fleeing the consequences of my own lack of willpower. I’m fleeing the very real possibility that I’ll lose control again and fuck Clover against that wall.
I’m still shaking as I burst out onto the dance floor, so I head for the restroom. I hide in a stall, talking my stupid, piece of shit, idiot, short-sighted dick down from the ridiculous state he’s in, then wash my hands and splash water on my neck.
Then, I take a hard look at myself in the mirror, my shame clear in every line on my face.
There aren’t many—I’ve worn sunscreen since I was a kid—but I still look like an old man compared to Clover.
Compared to that loser who laid hands on her.
And yes, he was a loser, but at least she was trying to move on from the temptation we pose to each other.
I should do the same, or at the very least ensure Clover and I are never alone together again.
Not ever.
As I head down to the kid zone, I vow to make that happen. If I haven’t already ruined things, I’ll make sure I don’t give myself a chance to screw up again.
The girls are where I left them, still deep in pretend fun with Mimi, but tired enough now that they don’t put up much of a fight when I say it’s time to head home for bath and story time.
I promise to let them play mermaids in the bath, too, before bed, and Ava happily hunts down their shoes, while I locate Bella’s lost socks in the ball pit.
We say our goodbyes to Elly and Mimi and the other kids they’ve had fun playing with, then head for the truck.
As I strap the girls into their car seats, they both smell of cotton candy, rubber from the play structure, and little kid sweat.
Innocent smells that make me even more ashamed of the way I smelled when I first got to the men’s room.
I washed most of the sex scent away, but still…
I certainly don’t feel like Dad of the Year.
And if Clover gives notice before Monday morning, I’m going to be in deep shit.
I have a travel game next week and, if my nanny quits, there’s no one to watch the girls while I’m gone.
Not to mention the fact that Ava and Bella would be devastated, forced to deal with another unexpected loss after they’ve already lost so much.
I drive home in the dark, feeling like garbage.
I get the kids ready for bed, dread filling my stomach, and tuck them in so full of regret, I can’t look myself in the eye as I brush my teeth.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, either. I lie awake hour after hour without hearing a peep from the road outside. Either Clover’s decided to stay out extra late or she’s gone home with someone else.
She might be fucking me out of her system with a guy she met on the dance floor right now…
The thought opens up a black hole of emotions I refuse to examine too closely as I roll onto my side and wait for the sun to rise, hoping things might look better in the morning.
Spoiler: they do not look better in the morning.
And by the time the girls and I leave for a Dinosaurs and Donuts event at the museum at ten, Clover still isn’t home.
I’m about to text her to make sure she’s okay, when I see a notification that I missed in the morning bustle.
It’s from Clover and reads simply—Stayed at a friend’s house last night, so I wouldn’t have to drag home late and risk waking you guys. May stay here tonight, too. But I’ll be there bright and early Monday morning for the girls. No worries. See you then, Boss.
Boss.
I’m still her boss. She isn’t quitting, and that is…good.
It really is.
So, why does it make me feel even more like shit than I did before?