Page 5 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
Fuck, that does it.
For a beat, I fight myself. Remind myself I’m here for business, not distraction. Remind myself that I don’t know her, that she’s trouble wrapped in pink hair and sharp eyes. But trouble’s exactly what I want right now, and the way she’s looking at me? It’s not going away.
My jaw locks, the decision landing heavy in my chest. “Room 1104.”
Her lips curve, soft and defiant. “Lead the way.”
The elevator ride is quiet, too damn quiet. The kind of silence that isn’t really silence at all—it’s loaded, humming, every second stretching taut between us. She keeps sneaking glances at me, like she’s not sure if she’s testing me or herself. I don’t look away. I want her to feel it. The weight of me watching.
By the time the doors slide open, my pulse is a steady drumbeat in my chest. I wheel out, and she follows close, her heels clicking against the carpet like a countdown. My room feels too far, then suddenly it’s right in front of me, and my keycard’s in the slot before I can think better of it.
The door shuts behind us, muffling the rest of the world. The room’s half-lit, curtains pulled just enough that the city glow spills in, painting her in silver and shadow. She doesn’t hesitate or give me a chance to second-guess. Her hands are on my shoulders, firm, pushing me back until the chair rocks slightly under the sudden shift. Then she swings one leg over and settles onto my lap like she owns it, like she’s been planning this all along.
Her eyes dare me to stop her.
And hell, if that doesn’t light something in me I didn’t know I’d been holding back. She thinks the chair sets limits. Thinks she’s the one in control because she climbed on top. Cute.
My hand slides up her thigh—rough, deliberate. “You think you get to set the pace?” My voice comes out low, darker than I intended.
Her smirk flickers, not quite gone, but tempered by the sharp inhale she tries to hide. “Maybe I do.”
Challenge accepted.
I fist a hand in her hair and drag her mouth to mine. The kiss is anything but gentle, all teeth, tongue, hunger. She tastes likewhiskey and rebellion, sharp edges that cut and burn in the best way. She gasps into me, and I take the sound like it belongs to me, swallowing it down, deepening the kiss until she melts against my chest.
Her lips are swollen when I break the kiss, her breath short and uneven. She’s still straddling me, thighs braced against mine, but I can feel the hesitation creeping in under that bravado of hers.
I tip my head back just enough to look her dead in the eye. “You’ve been staring at this chair all night like it’s in your way. Let me make something clear—“ My hand slides higher, under her skirt, until my fingers find heat through thin lace. I press there, firm, watching her jolt. ”—the only limit in this room is how much of me you can take.”
Her breath stutters, mouth parting, and for a second, she looks almost flustered. Then her nails scrape lightly against my shoulders like she’s reminding me she can give as good as she gets. “Big talk, cowboy.”
I grin, slow and sharp. “Sweetheart, I don’t talk big. I deliver.”
Before she can throw another jab, I hook an arm under her and shift, powering the chair back just enough to lock the brakes. Then I’ve got her flat on the bed in one practiced move, hovering over her, my weight braced on my good leg and one palm pressed into the mattress by her head.
Her eyes go wide—she wasn’t expecting that.
“Still think I can’t handle you?” I ask, voice low, a whisper against her cheek.
She swallows hard, the sound thick in the silence. Then, softer than I expect: “Prove it.”
I drag my mouth down her throat, tasting the shiver that runs through her. My fingers work the buttons of her blouse open, one by one, slow enough to make her squirm. Lace and skin peek through, and I can’t stop the sound that rumbles up from my chest.
Her hips arch, pressing against me, needy now, but I hold her there, pinning her with nothing but the weight of my hand on her stomach.
“Patience, gorgeous. I wanna savor this,” I murmur.
Her breath is ragged, blouse hanging open, lace bra peeking through. I pin her beneath me with one palm, while my other hand skims her thigh, dragging her skirt higher inch by inch. She squirms, restless, but I don’t give her the friction she’s hunting for. Not yet.
I roll the lace of her panties between my fingers before tugging the thin scrap of fabric down her hips, slow enough to make her legs twitch. She tries to help, but I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. My mouth claims hers again, hard, stealing her frustration, until she’s gasping when I finally break away.
“You don’t get to rush me,” I tell her.
And then I slide down the bed, lips and stubble grazing her skin, from her chest to her stomach, until I’m right where she’s throbbing for me. I push her thighs apart, wide, and hook them over my shoulders.
She tenses. “Fuck!”
My tongue drags through her folds, slow, deliberate, tasting her, savoring the way her back arches off the bed. She cries out, sharp and startled, and I grip her thighs tighter, holding her exactly where I want her.
