Page 65 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
It wasn’t even a choice.
She was team sex god every day of the week!
But the fun didn’t stop with the dirty plum incident. After the fruit frenzy, they’d defiled the stuffy chairs in the foyer. Then they’d made it halfway up the stairs before they did it again. They paused in the hallway to screw against one of the fifteen zillion doors before making it back to Raz’s suite and his decadent four-poster bed.
During this time, she’d learned a few tidbits about Erasmus Cress.
The man not only possessed a magic cock and magic hands. He also had a magic mouth, and he knew how to use it.
And that’s where she found herself in the early morning hours. She peered beneath the sheet to watch this Adonis drive her wild with lust. “Raz, I’m so close. Don’t stop,” she panted.
After last night, she should know better than to cajole him to keep going. He had the stamina of a comic book superhero and the harnessed tenacity of a school of salmon swimming upstream through a tornado. Okay, there probably weren’t a whole lot of tornados near salmon spawning grounds, but if there were, and if Raz was a fish, he’d barrel through that wind and water like the colossal beast he was. An innate, near-tangible drive seemed to propel him forward. And propel, he did. He held her hips, controlling the pace as she threaded her fingers into his ash brown hair.
“You taste like the sweetest plum,” the man growled, switching from working her with his mouth to massaging her sensitive bud with his hand as he prowled his way up her body. His hard length brushed against her thigh as he settled himself between her legs. “And now, I’ll be making you call out my name with my cock buried deep inside of you. Do you like that, plum?”
This fruit-inspired dirty talk made her head spin.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she cried, holding on to his muscled, beefy biceps, so eager to feel the power of this man as he thrust inside her.
He positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance when the distinct clap of a door slamming cut through their sex haze.
Breathless, they stared at each other.
“Could that be a draft? Did you leave a window open?” she asked.
Raz frowned. “I don’t think so. And it better not be bloody Rowen and his merry group of wankers.”
She giggled, smiling at this man, who looked back at her like she was just the plum he wanted to devour.
They waited, listening.
“Must be a draft,” he said, laser-focused on her as he slid in slowly. She closed her eyes, absorbing the energy and savoring the sensation when a voice called out—and it wasn’t Rowen or any of his merry wanker besties.
“Erasmus Cress, where are you, lad?” came a woman’s voice with the same rolling British accent as Raz.
The man stilled. “Did you hear that, or am I starting to hallucinate from shagging nonstop?”
“I heard it. Who is that?” she whispered. Could it be a member of a cleaning crew or a cook or a scullery maid? Did she know what a scullery maid did or if that was even a job in the twenty-first century? No, but this giant English manor house probably required one or two.
At least, that’s what she hoped. The alternative meant another heaping spoonful of mortification was on the way.
“Dad, are you home? Your car is out front,” came a boy’s voice.
A little boy.
It couldn’t be Sebastian, could it?
“Bollocks!” Raz whisper-shouted. “They weren’t supposed to arrive for another day.”
“Are you sure that’s not your gardener and herlad?” Libby offered, not sure where thatladcame from. Could she have had so much sex with a sexy beast of an Englishman that she’d started speaking like him? Because if that was a thing, they’d probably hit the language swapping threshold. But there was no time to concern herself with semantics.
Raz scrambled off the bed, wobbling like a giant redwood tree about to come down. “No,” he whispered. “It’s my granny, and the lad is my son.”
“Your grandmother and Sebastian are downstairs in this house,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Erasmus, Libby, it’s Madelyn Malone! Wake up, wake up! I’ve got a surprise for you.”
“And Madelyn’s here!” he whisper-shrieked, sprinting to a chest of drawers and whipping out a pair of athletic pants.
