“Get off the machine before you break it.”
THREE
Levi
I can’t believe I caught Clare sitting on my washing machine. The appliance is top-notch and brand-spanking new.
Does she have to ruin everything?
Her hand comes up and slaps me across the face as she slides down off the machine.
I growl at her and grab her wrist before she can pull it back and slap me again. “This is the thanks that I get, letting you into my home?”
“You insinuated that I’m fat,” Clare shoots back.
“What?” I stare at her blankly. “When the hell did I do that?” I’m sure I didn’t insinuate anything. The girl isn’t fat. She’s curvy with a rocking body that I’d like to dominate every inch of—fuck, I can’t have these tempestuous thoughts.
She’s the nanny, she’s a decade younger than I am, and more importantly, she’s been a big pain in my ass since we met on the airplane.
“You told me I’d break the washing machine. Hence, fat.”
She shuffles her feet and holds her book up to her chest, but it’s centered and does nothing to cover or hide her perky breasts from me.
Sleeping with her is out of the question. Not even if we were the last two people on the planet and had to procreate for survival, would I bed her.
Nope.
My cock says otherwise as I stare at her full tits bursting through her lacy bra. I’ve always been more of a tits man than an ass man.
The dark purple fabric is thin and sheer. It barely serves its purpose other than to taunt me, and boy, does it ever. I want to rip the fabric away from her skin and free her breasts, taking a mouthful, tasting and sucking.
If I were an honest man, I’d tell her that she’s not fat, that she’s curvy and voluptuous, and how I’d love to lick and taste every inch of her skin before fucking her raw.
But that’s too honest, and we’re not romantically involved. We’re not anything. She’s my kid’s nanny.
“Anyone sitting on the washing machine would break it. What book are you reading?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“It’s none of your business,” she says, clinging to the book, keeping it tight to her chest.
“A naughty book,” I surmise by her reluctance to show me the cover and clinging to it as though her life depends on it.
“Books aren’t naughty. Men are naughty,” Clare retorts.
“So are women,” I say.
She snorts under her breath. “I don’t know what you mean.” She shuffles closer to me, and her hand reaches out. I swear if she grazes my cock with her hand, I might just explode.
Her fingers dip into my pants pocket, retrieving her bright-red bikini bottoms. “Really? You’re not the naughty one here, stealing my dirty panties?”
“I don’t know how that got there,” I say with a laugh.
“Right. It must have fallen into your pocket when you went searching for my conditioner,Panty Thief.” She spins around. Her back is pressed up against my chest.
I take a step back, making sure that she can’t feel my hard-on pressing into her. It’s clearly biological. She’s a woman. I’m a man.
She’s got great tits. I blame it on her breasts.
And those panties, I swear that I didn’t steal them. I may have touched them and examined them a little too closely, but I swear I didn’t put them in my pocket.