I Was Just His Babysitter, Until He Found Me Alone in His Kitchen

The heavy glass door swung inward before Keana’s knuckles even finished their second rap. A whirlwind of squealing energy, seven-year-old Leo and five-year-old Maya, crashed into her legs.

“Keana!” they yelled in unison.

“Hey, you two monsters,” she laughed, easily absorbing the impact and ruffling both their heads of messy brown hair. “Ready to cause some trouble for me tonight?”

She knelt, bringing herself to their level, her gaze warm and her smile genuine. It was a routine perfected over the last six months. She’d gone from being the nervous new sitter to a seamless part of their weekly lives. She knew Maya needed her stuffed giraffe, Barnaby, positioned just so on her pillow, and that Leo would try to negotiate for fifteen extra minutes of screen time with the logic of a seasoned lawyer.

From the hallway leading to his home office, Maurice watched them for a moment. He was still in his work trousers, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie slung over a nearby chair. He was a man of sharp lines—in his architecture, his home, and his own damn jawline. Keana felt his presence before she looked up, a familiar tightening deep in her belly.

“I swear they get more excited to see you than me,” he said, his voice a low, easy baritone that always seemed to vibrate right through her.

Keana rose, smoothing down her jeans. “It’s just because I let them eat ice cream for dinner.”

He chuckled, a rich sound that made the thick, dark mustache bracketing his mouth shift. God, that mustache. It was the detail that fucked her up the most. It wasn’t some hipster affectation; it was part of him, confident and masculine. She’d spent more than one quiet night, after putting his children to bed, imagining the coarse texture of it scraping against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She wondered what his mouth tasted like, if he’d be rough or slow, if he would fuck her with the same focused intensity he clearly applied to his work. The thought was so vivid, so frequent, that it was becoming difficult to separate Mr. Henderson, her boss, from Maurice, the man she wanted to bend her over this very kitchen island.

For now, though, she was just the babysitter. “Everything ready for your dinner?” she asked, her tone perfectly professional, betraying none of the raw lust that was coiling in her gut.

He nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “Almost. Just have to wrestle this tie into submission. Thanks again for this, Keana. You’re a lifesaver.”

The professional rhythm was comfortable, practiced. He saw a reliable caretaker who put him at ease. She saw a man whose confidence was a tangible force, a man she privately undressed with her eyes every single time he walked into a room.

He moved past her to grab his suit jacket from the back of a dining chair, the fabric whispering as he shrugged it on. He was all sharp angles and controlled motion, a man who built skylines and commanded boardrooms. But as he turned back to her, buttoning the jacket, his movements seemed to slow, his focus narrowing entirely on her.

“Seriously,” he repeated, his voice lower now. “I’d be completely fucked without you.” He walked toward the door, then stopped, turning back as if on an afterthought. He closed the small distance between them, and Keana’s breath caught in her throat.

He reached out, his hand landing squarely on her shoulder. The gesture should have been paternal, a simple, appreciative pat. It was not. The weight of his hand was a brand, his palm broad and warm, the heat seeping through the thin cotton of her shirt and spreading like a fever down her arm, across her chest, and straight between her legs. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her, making her clit pulse with a sudden, aching throb. Her entire body went rigid. She had to fight the urge to lean into it, to arch her back and press her tits against his chest, to show him what that simple pressure did to her. She wanted that hand to slide lower, to cup her breast, or better yet, to snake around her throat while he fucked her senseless from behind.

For Maurice, the touch was meant to be quick, a punctuation mark on his gratitude. But the second his skin met hers, he was lost. The familiar pang of shitty-dad guilt for leaving again was instantly shoved aside by something far more potent, far more selfish. Her scent rose up to meet him, a cloud of warm vanilla layered over the clean, female musk of her skin. It wasn’t perfume; it was her. The smell of a woman he’d spent far too much time thinking about. It smelled like warm sheets and sex, and it hit him with the force of a physical blow, making his balls tighten and his cock give a hard twitch inside his tailored trousers. He wanted to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to drag his mustache over her skin and find the source of that smell. He wanted to forget the fucking client dinner, push her back against the wall, and hike her legs over his shoulders right here in the entryway.

His thumb moved, a barely perceptible stroke against her collarbone. His eyes darkened, the professional veneer cracking just enough for her to see the raw hunger beneath. He held her gaze, his hand lingering for a beat too long, the air between them growing thick and heavy with everything they weren't saying.

“Daddy, you didn’t forget!”

The small voice shattered the moment like a pane of glass. Maya stood in the doorway to the hall, clutching Barnaby the giraffe by one long, floppy ear. Maurice snatched his hand back from Keana’s shoulder as if he’d been burned, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Keana felt the loss of his heat instantly, replaced by a cold wave of awareness. Her pussy was slick, throbbing with a need so sharp it was almost painful, and now his five-year-old daughter was standing ten feet away.

Maurice cleared his throat, turning to face his daughter. The shift from would-be lover back to father was jarring, but his voice was smooth when he spoke. “Forget what, sweet pea?”

“The Grumpy Troll!” she said, her expression deadly serious. “You have to do the troll voice before you go. Keana doesn’t make him grumpy enough.”

A breath of laughter escaped Keana, shaky and tight. She risked a glance at Maurice. He was looking at her, and the raw hunger from moments before had been banked, replaced by something else. Something softer, but no less intense. It was a look of shared conspiracy, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of the situation. Here they were, seconds from tearing each other’s clothes off in the foyer, his cock undoubtedly hard in his expensive suit trousers, her panties soaked for him, and now they were discussing the vocal nuances of a grumpy troll.

He gave her a small, slow smile over Maya’s head. It wasn’t just a smile of parental amusement. It was deeply, dangerously intimate. It was a smile that said, You see what my life is. You see this chaos. And you still make me want to lose my fucking mind. It was a look that acknowledged her presence not just as the babysitter, but as a woman who was seeing him, all of him—the architect, the father, the man who was fighting an animal urge to bend her over the console table.

Keana felt her own lips curve in response. Her smile met his, and in that shared glance, a new, potent understanding passed between them. It was a silent pact. Her eyes told him she understood. She saw the loving father, and it didn’t temper her desire; it sharpened it. The thought of this man, who could do a perfect Grumpy Troll voice for his daughter, fucking her with brutal, single-minded intensity was almost too much to bear. The contrast was everything. The intimacy of that shared smile felt more binding than his touch had. It held, stretching for a beat too long, a silent, secret conversation happening right over his daughter’s innocent head. It was a promise of something messy and complicated and absolutely inevitable.