Page 66 of The Nanny and the Beefcake
“How is everyone able to get into your house?”
“Madelyn and her people have the alarm code. Remember, they brought your things here while we were…”
“At the police station. Yes, I remember.” Libby stared down at her sex-flushed skin and very naked body. This was not the way to make a good impression. This might be the way to make the worst impression ever made in the history of impressions. Shock and mortification hit like a blast of arctic air. After the giant slice of humiliation pie she’d hoovered yesterday, one would assume she’d built up a tolerance to the unpleasant emotion.
They’d be wrong.
This situation—the granny, son, nanny matchmaker trifecta crashing her orgasm-fest with the orgasms being supplied by her new boss—might vault her to the top spot of the most humiliation experienced by a twenty-five-year-old in a twenty-four-hour period.
She searched the bedroom. “Where are my clothes?”
Raz pulled a T-shirt on over his head. “In the laundry room.”
The laundry.
She grabbed a pillow and covered herself, well, the front of her body as she high-tailed it to the bedroom door. Peering out into the darkened hallway, her thrumming heartbeat slowed a fraction. The coast was clear. She inhaled a fortifying breath, then set off like a shot toward the end of the sprawling corridor. Charging into the laundry room, she flipped on the light and spied her clothes strewn about the floor. Like a little yoga ninja, she dressed at Mach-speed.
Granny panties?
Check.
White yoga capris?
A bit wrinkly, but no worse for wear, so…check.
Sparkly yoga-Barbie sports bra? Yes, ma’am, with sparkles intact!
She slid into that sucker, then gasped when she spied a hickey between her breasts.
To say things had gotten crazy in the kissing, hickey, and humping department might be the understatement of the century. Thankfully, the gold fabric concealed the red mark.
She plucked the aquamarine stone from the ground and slipped it into the hidden waist pocket on her yoga pants before sliding into her sneakers.
But she was missing something. What was it? Her sex-addled brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the far wall.
She didn’t have her pop of power. Her red wrap.
She studied the empty washing machine as jubilation washed over her.
When had they changed the laundry from the washer to the dryer? Had all those orgasms given her memory loss?
“Are you ready?” Raz asked, peering into the room.
“Who switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer?” she asked, opening the dryer door and separating her red wrap from his hoodie.
A cocksure grin spread across his face. “Pretty impressive, yeah? I heard the buzzer go off when I left the bedroom to get a few more plums. Remember, you wanted to eat them off my abs?”
Yep, she’d requested the pleasure of dining off his body.
“I don’t think you can classify putting the wash into the dryer as an impressive feat. You’re smiling like the King of the Jungle.”
“I am the Lion.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” she tossed back, taking in the smirk—the same smirk that had once driven her to bang gongs and now drove her to bang beefcakes.
But the expression was short-lived. Raz’s conceited grin melted into a look of pure shock. “Plum, your neck!”
