Page 7 of Knocking up his Nanny

As he strokes his thumb delicately across my cheek, I can’t really take the suspense. So, I lean forward and close the distance between us, to press my chocolate-covered lips against his mouth.

He seems startled for a moment, but then his lips soften against mine, and he kisses back—his tongue slipping out to taste the chocolate on me.

Oh my god. This chocolate thing may have been a bad idea, because my tongue naturally comes out to meet and play with his, and this kiss deepens. His lips devour mine, sending shivers to every part of my body, and fanning that ember into a baby flame, a warm, spreading heat in the center of me.

He tastes amazing—and it’s not just the chocolate and cognac mingling on our tongues. He tastes fresh and clean like he’s never smoked a cigarette in his life, and he flosses regularly, and he chews spearmint gum. He’s the cleanest, healthiest, tastiest man I’ve ever tasted, and I find myself wanting more, and more.

My body moves closer to his, seeking his touch, and his hand slides around my waist.

The kiss gets so deep, so fast, that I don’t even notice when he puts his drink aside, and takes my drink out of my hand, before he puts both hands around my waist and easily lifts me over to sit on his lap. I find myself straddling him, without knowing how I got there, as we kiss each other hungrily. I sigh into his lips.

I don’t even realize that my own arms have wrapped around his neck, and our bodies have melted together. I can feel the hardness of him pressed against me through both of our clothing—and my silly, silky panties—which I am now very thankful to have worn.

I slowly rock my hips against him, and he groans against my mouth.

“Slow down,” he says gently, letting his hands drift up and down my back. “We have time.”

“Chemo finishes in about an hour, and I will have to go,” I tell him. “So not that much time.”

“Not that much timetoday,” he corrects.

“Will there be more days?” I ask, with surprise.

“If you want them,” he says, as his hands reach up to undo my buttons. “This is a lovely sweater, by the way. It’s so soft and cozy.”

“Thank you! I knitted it myself.”Take that, Mrs. Merriweather. This gorgeous man loves my sweater, so it can’t be that bad.

He pulls it off me, and tosses it onto the couch, creating a pillow that he then gently guides me down onto. He follows, never breaking the contact of our lips for very long, kissing me and sliding his hands up under my skirt to squeeze my ass as he grinds his arousal against me.

I wrap one leg around him to drag him closer. I love the feeling of his hardness through our clothes—it makes me wish we were both wearing a lot less clothing. I realize that this is crazy, and getting kind of intense, and I barely know this man... but I want this so badly. I want to forget about everything bad in my life for a few minutes, and just feel good.

And he’s helping me do that way better than Cheetos ever could.

But just then, my stomach happens to growl, and he pauses our hot and heavy make-out session. He looks at me with surprise. “Oh, you never ate. You must be starving.”

He abruptly climbs off me and hands me my junk food and my chocolate martini.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I assure him. “There’s probably tons of sugar in this drink, so it’s kind of like a meal all by itself.” I take the drink from him, and I pour the rest of it down my throat to demonstrate. “See? I’m good.”

“There’s no nutrition in that,” he informs me skeptically. “I feel awful—you asked me on a date, and I should have taken you down to the cafeteria for a proper meal.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” I tell him, putting down my empty glass. “I promise. Please don’t even worry about that. This is the nicest date I’ve been on in years. I’m only hungry for you, now. Seriously.”

To encourage him, I reach down and grasp the hemline of my dress, and drag it up over my head, exposing my custom-made bra, which is also covered in glitters, to match my panties. I remove my dress, and written across my chest are some very ridiculous words: “MILK JUGS.” One word on each boob, complete with a cartoon rendition of a bottle of milk. He immediately begins to laugh when he sees the silly bra, and while I am very embarrassed, and did not expect anyone to ever see me wearing this, I am glad that it helps to break the ice. And I’m very proud of my unusual lingerie designs, anyway. This is just my first time testing them out on a male member of the human species.

(My male cat never seemed very impressed.)

The music is still playing, so I stand up, with my cheeks a bit flushed. I begin to do a dumb, sexy little dance for him. I even reach up, and grasp my hair, which is tightly wound up in the braided buns, and I undo the style, letting my reddish-brown locks fall down around my waist. I sway my hips from side to side, in what I hope is a seductive manner, and I watch as the arousal grows in his eyes. His hands reach for me.

But then a weird beeping noise causes us both to look toward the door.

Someone is trying to enter the room.

“Over here. Quickly,” he says, grabbing my hand and swiftly leading me to the closet.

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