Page 43 of The Billionaire’s Nanny

She wiped down a counter that was already clean, stalling, and perfectly aware she was stalling. She rinsed the pan, left it on the rack, and checked the courtyard door like she did every night. Then she shut the stove light off.

She could have washed the pan and gone down to her own bed. She went up after her instead, uninvited. It was always Lucy who went up, and neither of them talked about that.

Lucy went up along the outside edge in her socks with a hand on the rail, and four steps short of the landing she stopped for no reason she could have defended to anybody. Then she went the rest of the way.

The landing boards were cold through her socks. Grace's door stood open a hand's width. Lucy stopped there until she'd counted three breaths. Then she went down the landing wanting her hands on Carrington so badly it made her clumsy, and she made herself walk the rest of it slowly.

Carrington was standing at the dresser. Three bobby pins were already out of her hair, lying in the dish. Her gaze met Lucy’s in the mirror, and she kept taking out pins.

"You'd have to be out before twenty to six," Carrington said. "The chef has a key to the courtyard, so she's in the house before you'd hear her."

"I know when she gets here."

"The gardeners also come on Wednesday. That's tomorrow."

"At the gate. Seven o'clock." Lucy pushed the door closed behind her, holding the handle down, and let it up slowly. "I worked all of it out on Sunday. I've run it in my head every night since. There's nothing left for you to handle."

Carrington had the fourth pin in her hand and stopped with it there. After a few seconds, she set the pin down in the dish. She didn't turn around. In the mirror, Lucy saw Carrington’s mouth had parted slightly.

"I can't remember the last time anybody did that for me," Carrington said.

Lucy didn't answer that. She moved in behind her and took the rest of the pins out herself, one at a time, dropping each one in the dish. Carrington's hair was heavier than it looked. Then Lucy took her by both shoulders and brought her around, and there was no resistance in her anywhere.

Lucy closed a hand over her wrist. Under her thumb, on the thin skin inside it, Carrington's pulse was hammering, and she didn't take her arm back.

"Go lie down," Lucy said.

Carrington looked at her. Her eyes were dark, and she wasn’t concealing anything. She held Lucy's gaze for a long, quiet moment, and then she turned toward the bed. Carrington sat on the edge of the bed and then shifted, drawing her legs up, her back against the headboard. Her hair had fallen over one shoulder, thick and near-black against the pale collar of her blouse. Lucy still stood at the foot of the bed, still wearing her jeans and the old T-shirt she'd had on all evening.

She watched Carrington against the headboard.

"Sit further back," Lucy said.

Carrington shifted until her shoulders met the wood of the headboard. Her knees were slightly bent, and her feet were flat on the sheets. She was still wearing the blouse and the tailored pants she'd had on at dinner, though she'd toed off her heels at some point and they were by the bedroom door.

Lucy came around to the side of the bed and sat on the edge of it, near Carrington's hip. The mattress dipped under her weight and Carrington's body adjusted to the slope of it, her knee falling slightly toward Lucy.

Lucy put her hand on Carrington's knee, her palm flat against the fabric. She could feel the shape of the bone underneath, and Carrington didn't move. She left her hand there long enough that she felt the muscle start to ease as Carrington stopped bracing. Lucy's fingers moved along the top of the knee, down the outside of the shin, and back up to the thigh, where the fabric was taut over her muscle. She pressed her thumb in slightly, and Carrington's breath changed.

She looked at her face. The sharp cheekbones caught the lamplight on one side. Her mouth was closed, lips slightly parted at the center. Her throat was bare, the top two buttons of her blouse opened. Lucy reached for the third.

She took her time with it and watched Carrington's face while she worked the button free. Lucy saw the moment Carrington's eyes dropped shut and then opened again, like she'd tried to close herself off and couldn't sustain it.

Fourth button. The blouse fell open to the base of her sternum. The fabric parted, and Lucy could see the edge of her bra. Lucy moved to the fifth button and then the sixth, and the blouse fell open entirely. She pushed the fabric aside, off her shoulders, and Carrington let it go. It pooled behind her against the headboard, half-on and half-off, and Lucy left it there.

Lucy looked at her. Her bra was charcoal gray and low-cut, the kind that did its job and didn't pretend otherwise. Carrington's chest rose and fell. Her collarbones were prominent. Lucy put her hand between her breasts and felt Carrington’s heartbeat. It was fast, faster than she'd expected.

She reached around with her other hand and unclasped the bra. The band loosened and the straps went slack on Carrington's shoulders. Lucy drew the cups forward and down and off her arms, and Carrington's breasts were bare in the lamplight. They were full, and the nipples were already tight and dark.

Carrington reached up, and Lucy caught her wrist and moved it back down to her side. She placed it on the sheet, flat, fingers open.

"Leave it there," Lucy said.

Carrington's fingers curled once against the sheet and then went still.

Lucy bent her head and put her mouth on the curve of Carrington's neck and felt the pulse in the carotid. She breathed in, and it was her own scent, transferred. The intimacy of that—that Carrington smelled like her—bloomed warmth through her chest. She pressed her tongue to the same spot and tasted salt, then moved down to the base of her throat, where the tendons met. Carrington's breath hitched. Lucy felt it under her lips, the small catch and hold, and she waited for it to release before she moved lower.

She took her time. Her mouth traced the line of Carrington's collarbone, the hollow beneath it, the upper slope of her right breast. She could feel Carrington's fingers pressing in the sheet, but they stayed where Lucy had put them.