Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Her pleasure first. Most important. I didn’t think those things existed beyond porn, because wasn’t porn just a fantasy? About as real as a show with dragons and heroes who slayed them? We liked to fantasize about such things, but they weren’t possible. No dragons, no men prioritizing women’s pleasure.
Yet I was standing there in the middle of Beau’s office, staring at his desk, suddenly envisioning closing the door and seducing him.
I imagined his beard scratching my inner thighs. Beau losing control with me.
“Hannah.”
My name was harsh, cutting through the thin veil of my fantasy like a serrated knife.
Beau was staring at me, chest rising and falling rapidly, hands gripping his knees. A vein stood out in his neck.
I’d been standing at the door when I’d lapsed into my fantasy. At my name, I’d stepped two paces inside. As if some wanton, sex-starved maniac had taken over my body and prepared it to do what my inner voice was commanding: seduce Beau.
And it almost looked as if Beau knew what I was intending to do. Knew what I was thinking.
He looked angry. But there was also that same need I saw snippets of, glimpses of hunger crowding his face.
And the way he’d said my name. Was it a warning? Was it—
“I’ll go as Gomez.”
I just stood there. Frozen.
“The costumes.” He sat ramrod straight in his chair. “You’re going to be Morticia, Clara Wednesday. I’ll be Gomez.”
His voice was still tight, strained, fists still clenched at his knees. But I was pretty sure he wasn’t joking.
“You’ll dress up? On Halloween?”
He nodded once, curtly. “You don’t need to make my costume. I have a black suit.”
My mind raced. Beau. In a black suit. Beau as Gomez Addams.
“You can’t shave your beard,” I blurted, my mind jumping back to my inner thighs and my need for his beard to mark them.
Beau’s eyes widened slightly.
Heat warmed my ears. “I mean, Clara is so fond of your beard. She’d be devastated if you shaved it, even in the name of Gomez Addams.”
I licked my suddenly dry lips.
Beau was still sitting stiffly, but I could’ve sworn I saw a glint of amusement in his steely eyes.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset Clara,” he said pointedly.
I wrung my hands. “It’ll mean a lot to her,” I replied quietly. “You making the effort with the costume. And if you’re uncomfortable with me being involved, I can—”
“You’ll be part of the family … costume,” he stated firmly.
I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t part of the family, that I was just the nanny.
“If that’s all, I have to get back to work.” Beau shifted to face his computer, picking up a stack of papers. “I’ll get a sewing machine for you.”
“Oh, I can—”
“I’ll do it.”
Beau’s tone brooked no argument. And I didn’t think I could handle being in this room for a moment longer unless I launched myself at him or said something stupid or spontaneously combusted.
I nodded then stumbled out of his office.
BEAU
I had to get control of myself.
I’d nearly pushed out of my chair, pressed her against the door, and fucked her senseless. Her expression made me wonder if that’s what she wanted from me.
The way she looked at me, the way her eyes had hooded, her breathing becoming shallow. Her lips had parted.
She looked like she was begging to be fucked. To be claimed. By me.
I’d been ready to tear her fucking clothes off, to surge into her with my god damn daughter in the same house.
What was wrong with me?
I tried to force my eyes back on the spreadsheets, telling myself to focus on the business, loan payments, and medical bills. All pressing, important.
But all I could think about was Hannah.
eight
HANNAH
It was one of the worst days of my week. And one I had secretly waited for because I was a masochist.
Beau was home. All day. All night.
Either the restaurant was closed or it was his day off—I didn’t know because I didn’t ask. Limiting my interactions with him was safest.
Beau was with Clara in her room, reading together while music played from the Bluetooth speaker she got for her birthday. Clara loved music—Taylor Swift, Bach, Stevie Nicks, Nirvana. Her taste was varied and genre-bending, some obviously influenced by her father, others completely her.
The house was never quiet, not for a moment. If there wasn’t music, there was Clara’s chatter, questions, commentary, compliments, or just a low hum of contentment when she was happily playing alone.
I didn’t realize how much the sounds of a happy child, a happy home, meant to me until I went to my own bedroom and was met with oppressive silence.
I was already on edge because I didn’t like being in the house when Beau was home, spending time with his daughter, making it clear he didn't need me. I usually went out for walks, picked weeds in the garden, or marinated in existential dread with my headphones blaring.