Page 34 of Stay Wild Darlin’

His eyes were pure hunger, pupils blown wide, the muscle in his jaw ticking hard. He looked like he was barely holding on, like if I moved an inch—parted my thighs a little more—he’d lose whatever grip he had on restraint and drag me under him.

“I—” he croaked. His hand twitched. “I need to go.”

He jumped up and was out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Fuck,” I gasped, the word barely audible over the sound of my blood roaring in my ears.

I slumped back on the bed, legs trembling, skin flushed, breath uneven. My hands curled in my lap, useless, aching to finish what he started.

My hand moved without permission, sliding down the front of my dress, pushing it up over my hips. I shoved my panties to the side, fingers diving into the slick mess he’d left me with. God, I was soaked—squelching—and I fucking moaned at the sound of it. My clit throbbed under my touch, and I circled it—rough, fast, needy. There was no buildup. No romance. I was already on edge, already half gone.

“Dalton,” I whimpered.

I imagined his mouth there instead, lapping at the mess he’d made as he held my thighs apart. I pictured his fingers buried deep, pumping hard and fast while he told me how wet I was, how much I needed it, how he could smell me from across the room.

I shoved two fingers inside, knuckles deep, and cried out at the stretch. My other hand worked my clit in tight, punishing circles, chasing that high like it owed me something.

My body rocked into it, hips twitching, and thighs trembling. My fingers were coated, and I didn’t stop—I couldn’t stop—grinding down, panting his name like a prayer.

The orgasm ripped through me. I saw stars behind my eyelids. My legs quivered around my hand, drenched and still not satisfied.

I wanted him.

His mouth. His cock. His everything.

It was wrong. So fucking wrong.

He was my boss. I was the nanny. He was helping me. Bandaging a scrape. Being decent. Kind.

I’d sat there soaking wet, legs spread, letting my filthy little imagination twist that kindness into something darker. Something hotter. Something forbidden.

I should’ve gone to bed.

Should’ve iced my arm and called it a night.

Instead, I fucked myself on my own fingers—soaking the sheets, drunk on beer and Dalton’s scent, his voice, the look in his eyes when his hand found my thigh.

My boss.

The man who paid me to take care of his kid. Trusted me.

I was . . . full of my own cum, my dress bunched up around my waist, panties shoved aside, legs still twitching from the mess I made all over my hand.

My head swam, the room spinning, and as I slipped under the weight of sleep, his name spilled from my lips like a fucking confession.

“Dalton.”

Mine.

I passed out—half drunk, soaked in sin, and completely fucked by my own imagination.

16

Poppy

“Ugh,” I groaned, my head throbbing. “The first thing going up today is my curtains.” I grabbed my pillow and held it over my head. “Too sunny,” I whined.

I missed the gray skies of Seattle—especially on mornings like this. The kind that made me swear I was never drinking again.