Page 76 of Nine Week Nanny
My fingers clutch at him, sliding against his slick skin, desperate for something solid as the water churns around us.
Each thrust ripples through me, through the pool, like waves announcing exactly what we’re doing to anyone who might look too closely.
That thought should mortify me. Instead, it makes my blood race, heat pooling low in my belly.
“Harder,” I whisper, though it comes out more like a plea. “Please.”
His hands grip my hips underwater, fingers digging into my flesh as he drives deeper.
"Look at me," Pope commands.
I open my eyes to find his gaze locked on mine, dark and unflinching. The connection hits harder than the thrusts themselves, like he’s inside my head as much as my body.
His hand slides from my hip, over the curve of my ass, lower—until his finger circles that forbidden place.
A jolt shoots through me, memory slamming back. That first night, in the hotel. The stranger I thought I’d never see again. The way I let him touch me there because it was reckless, filthy, safe in its own finality.
But this isn’t a stranger anymore. This is Pope. The man I live with, the man I see every day. And letting him touch me here again, God, it’s even bolder than before.
It’s dangerous and intimate in a way that terrifies me. Which turns me on even more.
“Is this okay?” His voice is low, strained, like it’s taking everything he has not to push further.
My breath shudders out. Shame and hunger twist in my chest, sharp as lightning.
“Yes,” I gasp. My body clenches around him, greedy, betraying me. “God, yes. I haven’t been able to put it out of my mind. You feel so good.”
Heat tears through me, stronger for the risk, for the knowledge that this isn’t some reckless one-night mistake. This is us now—complicated, combustible, inevitable.
When his finger presses gently against the sensitive bundle while he's still thrusting inside me, the dual sensation sends electricity shooting through my core. My body tightens around him as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak.
"I'm close," I cry out, not caring who might hear.
"Show me how good it feels. Don’t hold back," he commands, increasing his pace while his finger applies more pressure.
The orgasm crashes through me like nothing I've ever experienced before. My vision blurs as waves of intense pleasure radiate outward from my center.
I'm vaguely aware of my own voice, crying out Pope's name as my body convulses around him.
Then, his entire body goes rigid. A low, guttural groan tears from his throat as he thrusts one last time, a hard shudder that leaves him gasping. His release pours deep inside me, a hot, liquid warmth mixing with the water around us.
He collapses against me, his chest heaving, his hand finally leaving my ass.
We drift in the silent intimacy of the pool, his arms wrapped around me, our breathing slowing in sync. The quiet is absolute, broken only by the soft lapping of the water.
My head rests on his shoulder as the last tremors of my orgasm fade. The peaceful weight of his arm around me is safety,something lulling me into the forbidden territory of falling for him, for this.
And yet, a flicker of memory sparks low in my body—his finger circling where no one else ever has. Bolder than the hotel, sharper now that I know him. It should have scared me. Instead, it made everything burn hotter.
It isn’t the pool or the rush of it. It’s how he touched me first, careful and almost hesitant, like testing the edges of something neither of us is supposed to want.
That’s what undoes me. Not the sex.
It’s the fact that he’s holding me like I matter.
I shove the thought away before it roots too deep.
It’s in that fragile quiet that I remember the text from Maris.
