Nanny's Dripping Wet (Part 1)

Cathy's POV 

What’s the definition of ‘Adrenaline Rush?’

I'd tell you mine; It’s the second the front door of that Upper East Side mansion swung open and I forgot how to breathe.

Why? 

Because, I took the live-in nanny position hoping for the usual—bedtime stories, packed lunches, a steady paycheck that would finally stop the late notices. I never expected to be standing on a polished marble looking up at the most talked-about man in New York.

Damien Hale. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver threading through dark hair at the temples, gray eyes sharp enough to cut. A man built sinfully. Gosh!

He didn’t smile, he just stepped aside and said my name like he’d already decided I belonged inside those walls.

“Cathy Reyes.”

“Yes, Mr. Hale.”

“Damien is better.” His voice was low, controlled, the kind that made heat pool low in my belly even while I was still dripping rainwater onto his foyer. 

“Come in.”

I followed him through rooms that smelled so fantastic, heart hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. Ten minutes later I was hired. No long interrogation. No polite small talk. Just those gray eyes assessing me from the damp ends of my dark hair down to my practical shoes, and the quiet instruction;

“Lila is five. She lost her mother two years ago. She needs consistency, not performance. You’ll live here. Your suite is on the third floor. You start this afternoon.”

I should have asked about salary. About days off. About why a man who looked like sin itself was hiring his own nanny at four in the afternoon. Instead I nodded, throat tight, and said “yes.”

By eight that night Lila was asleep, one small fist curled under her cheek. I’d read the same picture book four times because her lashes kept fluttering shut mid-sentence. I left the night-light on its softest setting and closed her door with care that already felt personal.

I found the kitchen empty—all stainless steel and soft under-cabinet lighting. I filled a glass at the sink, the water cold enough to sting while my mind spiraled with nasty things.

A second later, I felt someone’s body heat against my back. I tried to turn, but Damien didn’t let me.

His hand settled at my waist in a slow, possessive claim. The glass nearly slipped from my fingers. His chest brushed my shoulder blades, his scent a mix of whiskey, clean skin, and something hotter beneath it.

I tried to turn again, and this time, he let me.

Our eyes locked. Without saying a word, his mouth crashed onto mine, hard and open and immediately filthy. Tongue sweeping in like he’d been starving for the taste of me. One hand fisted in the back of my blouse; the other shoved the fabric up, fingers already under the band of my bra. The clasp gave with a soft snap. 

Cool air kissed my nipples a second before his palms covered them, rough enough to make me gasp into his mouth.

I really wanted to stop him, to keep my dignity, but with this man, I was starting to think I’d willingly lose every bit of it.

He walked me backward until my ass hit the edge of the counter. Pants unbuttoned. Zipper dragged down. He shoved the fabric over my hips and I stepped out of them without being asked, underwear tangled around one ankle. His fingers slid between my thighs and found me already slick, swollen, ready.

A low sound rumbled in his chest. “You’re, Cathy.”

“Mm.” I bit my inner cheeks in shame.

He pushed two fingers inside me without warning. My head fell back against the cabinet, a broken moan spilling out. 

He fucked them into me in short, ruthless strokes, thumb circling my clit with deliberate pressure. Wet sounds filled the quiet kitchen. My hips rolled to meet every thrust.

He pulled his fingers free, licked them clean while I watched, then freed himself. Almost 9 inches long, hard, girthy. Already leaking at the tip. He gripped my thighs, spread me wider, and pushed his dick into my already-wet pussy in one deep, relentless stroke.

“Ahhhh…” I cried out in pure ecstasy as he filled me so completely it bordered on raw pleasure. He didn’t give me time to adjust. He fucked me hard and fast, the counter biting into my ass, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the marble. One hand braced beside my hip; the other held my throat lightly, not squeezing, just holding me in place so he could watch every expression that crossed my face.

“Look at me, Cathy.” He ordered, voice raspy.

I did. His gray eyes were nearly black with pleasure, his jaw tight. The controlled billionaire I’d heard so much about was gone—replaced by the man driving into me as though he’d been aching for this exact heat for months. Maybe even years.

I came first—sharp, sudden, clenching hard around him with a broken whimper I tried and failed to swallow. He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, a low groan torn from his throat as he pulsed deep inside me, filling me in thick, hot cum.

We stayed locked together, foreheads pressed, breath mingling. His cock still twitched inside me. My arms had somehow found their way around his neck.

Damien’s voice was raw against my mouth. “This isn’t stopping.”

My fingers tightened in his hair. I didn’t trust my voice yet, so I answered the only way I could—by pulling him closer and kissing him shamelessly, slow, open, and filthy with the taste of what we’d just done.

He lifted me off the counter without pulling out. Strong arms under my thighs. I locked my legs around his waist and felt him thicken again inside me as he carried me toward the stairs.

The mansion was silent except for the soft, wet sound of him still moving inside me with every step.

By the time we reached his bedroom door, I already knew two things with perfect cl

arity:

I was in so much trouble.

And I had no intention of stopping either.