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.

The drone of his client’s voice faded into the general clatter of the restaurant—silverware on porcelain, the murmur of a dozen other meaningless conversations. Maurice stared at the wine glass in front of him, but he wasn’t seeing the deep red swirl of the cabernet. He was seeing Keana’s eyes, wide and dark in the dim light of his foyer. He was feeling the insane jolt that had shot up his arm the second he’d touched her shoulder, the way her body had gone rigid with a tension that was anything but fear. It was pure, unadulterated awareness. His cock, which had been uncomfortably hard for the entire drive to the restaurant, gave a thick pulse under the table. He shifted in his seat, the fine wool of his trousers suddenly feeling abrasive and restrictive.

He’d wanted to fuck her for months. It had started as a low hum of attraction, an appreciation for the curve of her ass in her tight jeans as she bent to pick up a toy, or the way her tongue would peek out from between her lips when she was concentrating on one of Maya’s complicated craft projects. But tonight, it had become a fucking roar. That shared smile over his daughter’s head had been more intimate than any kiss he’d ever had. It was a confession, a conspiracy. I see you. I want you. And you want me, too.

Fuck the dinner. Fuck the client. He slipped his phone from his pocket beneath the tablecloth, his thumb swiping across the screen to her contact. His fingers felt clumsy as he typed, his mind a mess of what he wanted to say versus what he could say. I can’t stop thinking about the way you smelled. No. I wanted to push you against the wall and bury my face between your legs. Definitely not. He deleted the words and settled for something tamer, something that walked the line.

Hope they're not giving you too much trouble. You're a lifesaver.

He hit send before he could second-guess it.

The house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Keana had checked on the kids twice. Both were sound asleep, Maya clutching Barnaby, Leo sprawled out like a starfish. She sat on the huge, plush sectional in the living room, the memory of Maurice’s touch still a phantom heat on her skin. Her clit throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and her panties were damp. She had been replaying that moment in the foyer on a loop—the weight of his hand, the darkness in his eyes, the way his mustache had framed that dangerously intimate smile. It felt like a promise.

Her phone vibrated on the cushion beside her, the buzz loud in the stillness. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the screen lit up with his name. Maurice Henderson.

She snatched it up, her breath catching as she read the words. You’re a lifesaver. It was so simple, yet it felt like everything. It wasn’t Mr. Henderson, the boss, checking in. It was Maurice, the man whose hand had lingered on her shoulder, reaching out from across the city to close the distance between them. A hot flush spread up her neck and across her cheeks. This was a private channel, a bubble just for them, created with a few simple words. She bit her lower lip, a nervous thrill dancing in her stomach. He was thinking about her. Right now.

Her reply had to be perfect. Warm, but not desperate. Appreciative, but with a hint of their shared secret.

They were perfect angels, as always, she typed. The Grumpy Troll was a big hit. The house is quiet now.

She stared at the message, her thumb hovering over the send button. Including the Grumpy Troll was a direct reference to their moment, a little secret passed back to him. It was her way of saying, I haven’t forgotten either. She pressed send. The message disappeared into the ether, and the quiet house suddenly felt charged, humming with a new, thrilling tension.

Needing to move, to do something with the nervous energy thrumming through her veins, Keana stood up. The silence of the house pressed in, no longer just quiet but charged with the weight of their unspoken conversation. Tidying was an excuse, a way to ground herself in the physical world when her mind was spinning. She fluffed the pillows on the enormous sofa, straightened a stack of glossy design magazines, and carried an empty water glass to the kitchen.

When she returned, her eyes landed on the coffee table. Amidst the curated objects—a heavy art book, a sculptural piece of driftwood—was a large, black sketchbook. It was open, lying there as if he’d been called away mid-thought. It felt like a trap and an invitation all at once. Her professional instincts screamed at her to leave it, to respect his privacy. But the woman in her, the one whose panties were still damp from his nearness, was desperate for another glimpse behind the curtain.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for it, her fingers brushing against the soft, worn leather. She sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled the book onto her lap. The first few pages were filled with what she expected: breathtaking architectural designs. Bold, clean lines defined impossible structures that seemed to defy gravity. There were detailed floor plans and cross-sections, his handwriting a sharp, intelligent scrawl in the margins. It was the work of a brilliant, controlled mind. The mind of the man who ran this perfect house, who wore those perfect suits.

Then she turned a page, and her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t a building. It was a portrait, rendered in rough, expressive charcoal. A woman’s face, tilted up, eyes closed, lips parted on a silent gasp. It wasn’t a photographically perfect rendering; it was an emotion captured on paper. The shadows on her throat were deep and smudged, as if created by a desperate, hurried hand. Keana felt like a voyeur, like she had stumbled upon a scene of intense, private passion.

She flipped the page again, her heart hammering. Another portrait. This time, just a pair of eyes, wide and staring directly at the viewer. They were filled with a raw, aching sadness that made her own chest tighten. This wasn't just sketching; this was him excavating his own soul.

The next page made her pussy clench with a sudden, sharp throb. It was a nude. A woman’s torso, from the base of her throat to the swell of her hips, but it was the hands that captured her attention. A man’s hands—unmistakably his, strong and sure—were splayed across the woman’s stomach. They weren’t gentle. They were possessive, fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs pressing down on either side of the navel. The drawing was pure, undiluted want. It was brutal and carnal, a depiction of ownership.

This was him. This was Maurice. Not “Mr. Henderson,” her employer. This was the man behind the controlled facade, a man of intense, almost violent passion. The same hands that could draw a blueprint with surgical precision could also create this raw, savage art. She imagined those hands on her, stained with charcoal, gripping her hips, leaving bruises. The thought sent a jolt of pure lust through her, so powerful it made her dizzy. He wasn't just a hot dad. He was a complex, brooding artist, and seeing this hidden part of him made her desire shift from a simple spark of attraction into a raging, uncontrollable fire.

She slammed the sketchbook shut, the sound of the leather cover slapping against the thick paper unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Her breath was coming in short, ragged pants. Her pussy was dripping, the wetness soaking through the thin cotton of her panties and making her thighs feel slick and hot. She could feel her own clit, hard and aching, pressing against the seam. He wasn't just a man who wanted sex; he was a man who wanted to possess, to dominate, to leave his mark. And God, she wanted to be the one he marked. She wanted those charcoal-stained hands gripping her, bruising her, fucking her until she was nothing but a collection of raw nerve endings screaming his name.

She carefully placed the book back on the coffee table, exactly as she had found it, but it was too late. She couldn't unsee it. The barrier between Mr. Henderson, her handsome, respectable boss, and Maurice, the dark, carnal artist, had been annihilated. There was only Maurice now, and the knowledge of what lay beneath his calm surface had her cunt throbbing with a desperate, greedy pulse.

Across town, Maurice pushed his chair back from the table, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The client stopped mid-sentence, his mouth slightly agape.

“Something’s come up,” Maurice said, his voice flat and final. He threw a few hundred-dollar bills onto the table, more than enough to cover the check. “We’ll be in touch.” He didn’t wait for a reply.

He had seen Keana’s text. The Grumpy Troll was a big hit. It was a direct hit, a bullseye right in the center of their shared secret. She was playing the game with him. She was acknowledging the intimacy, feeding it. The thought of her alone in his house, the house that suddenly felt more like their space, was making him insane. He needed to be there. Now.

The drive was a blur of red lights and the glare of oncoming traffic. His cock was painfully hard, pressing against the zipper of his trousers. He gripped the steering wheel, imagining his hands on her instead. On her throat, in her hair, gripping her ass and pulling her onto his cock. He wanted to fuck her in every room of his house, starting with the kitchen counter. He wanted to hear her scream, to watch her face as he pushed her over the edge.

He pulled over a block from his house, the engine still running. He couldn't just walk in. The night had to be handled correctly. It needed one final push, one last move to erase any ambiguity. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. He typed, deleted, and typed again, settling on the perfect blend of casual and commanding.

Dinner ended earlier than I expected. On my way home now. He paused, then added the final, critical line. Don't rush off when I get there, let me pour you a proper thank-you drink.

He hit send. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration.

Keana’s phone buzzed against her thigh, and the vibration shot straight to her core. She fumbled for it, her hands still unsteady. His name lit up the screen again. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she read the words.

On my way home now.

The blood rushed in her ears. He was coming. Now. The polite, professional veneer of her job was about to be stripped away. Then she read the last line.

Don't rush off when I get there, let me pour you a proper thank-you drink.

A wave of heat washed through her, so intense it felt like a fever. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a summons. A proper thank-you. She knew exactly what kind of thank-you he had in mind. It had nothing to do with a drink and everything to do with the savage art in his sketchbook. The quiet anticipation she’d been feeling all night exploded into a frantic, nervous certainty. This was happening. He was coming home to her, and the night was far from over.

A shiver, hot and sharp, traced its way down Keana’s spine. A proper thank-you drink. The words were a promise, a contract signed and delivered via text. The house, once a professional space, now felt like a hunting ground, and she was willingly offering herself up as prey. Her own wetness was a slick, hot testament to how much she wanted to be caught. Her panties were soaked, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably between her legs, a constant, throbbing reminder of the ache that had settled deep in her cunt.

She needed to do something, anything, to stop her hands from shaking. The kitchen, with its clean lines and cool surfaces, beckoned. She walked into the vast, open-plan space, the under-cabinet lighting casting long, dramatic shadows. It was a chef’s dream, all stainless steel and dark wood, but tonight it felt like a stage set for a sin she was desperate to commit. She filled an electric kettle with water, the simple act feeling monumental. Tea. It was absurd, but it was something to do. A ritual to calm the frantic hummingbird beating against her ribs.

While the water heated, she leaned back against the enormous marble island. The stone was shockingly cold against the thin material of her jeans, the chill seeping through the denim and pressing against her ass. The contrast with the heat pooling between her thighs was dizzying. She closed her eyes, her head falling back as she took a shaky breath. His sketchbook. The images were burned onto the backs of her eyelids. The raw, possessive grip of his hands on that woman’s stomach. The charcoal smudges that looked like bruises. She imagined those hands on her own body, gripping her hips, one hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as he fucked her mouth.

Her phone was still clutched in her hand. She swiped it open, her thumb finding her music library. She didn’t want silence. Silence was for waiting. She wanted a soundtrack. She scrolled until she found what she was looking for—a slow, smoky R&B track with a bassline that vibrated deep in your bones. The singer’s voice, a low, sensual croon, filled the cavernous kitchen.

The kettle clicked off, but she didn’t move. She let the music wash over her, a slow, liquid heat that mimicked the feeling of her own arousal. She started to sway, a barely perceptible movement of her hips, her ass rubbing gently against the cold marble. The friction, slight as it was, sent a fresh wave of heat straight to her clit. It was already hard, a tight, aching pearl, and the subtle pressure made her gasp softly. She pressed back against the island harder, a deliberate, seeking movement. Her pussy wept, a fresh gush of slick wetness making her feel utterly shameless. She was getting herself off on the thought of her boss, in his own kitchen, just minutes before he was due to walk through the door. The sheer fucking audacity of it made her want him more. This wasn't just about a drink. It was about him taking what he’d so brutally depicted in his art, and her giving it to him without a single protest. She was already his. She just needed him to come home and claim her.

The key turned in the front door lock with an almost imperceptible click. Maurice eased the heavy oak door open and slipped inside, shutting it behind him with the care of a thief. The house was dead silent, a tomb holding the soft breathing of his sleeping children upstairs. He kicked off his dress shoes, leaving them by the door, and padded down the hallway in his socks. A soft, warm light spilled from the kitchen entryway, accompanied by the low, throbbing beat of a song he didn’t recognize. The bassline was a physical presence, a vibration that traveled through the polished hardwood floors and settled deep in his groin.

He stopped at the threshold, his body going completely still. The sight that met him punched the air from his lungs. It wasn’t Keana, the sweet, reliable babysitter. It was a woman. A goddess of pure, undiluted sex, framed by the soft glow of his kitchen.

She was leaning back against the marble island, her ass pressed into the cool stone. The angle was perfect, obscene. The tight denim of her jeans hugged every curve, and the under-cabinet lighting cast a golden glow up her thighs, highlighting the swell of her hips and the dip of her waist. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, a picture of sensual surrender. And she was moving. A slow, rhythmic sway of her hips, a subtle grind against the marble that was anything but innocent. It was the movement of a woman who was already dripping wet, her pussy aching for a cock. For his cock.

His dick, already painfully hard against his zipper, gave a violent lurch. A low growl rumbled in his chest. This was it. This was the living, breathing embodiment of the filthy images in his sketchbook. She wasn't just waiting for him; she was preparing for him, turning his sterile, architectural kitchen into her own private fucking stage. The professional line between them hadn't just been blurred; she had taken a lit blowtorch to it and incinerated it completely.

A possessive rage, hot and sharp, coursed through his veins. He wanted to storm across the floor, grab a handful of her hair, and slam her face down onto the cold marble. He wanted to rip those jeans from her body and fuck her right there, from behind, his hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the screams he knew he could pull from her. He wanted to watch her ass jiggle with every brutal thrust, to see his own reflection in the polished steel of the refrigerator as he took her.

But he held himself in check, rooted to the spot. The power of the moment was too potent to rush. He watched her, his gaze devouring her. The slow, deliberate way her ass rolled against the counter. The vulnerability of her exposed throat. The sheer fucking audacity of her, getting herself off in his house, knowing he was moments away. She wasn't just an object of his desire anymore. She was an active participant, a co-conspirator in the sin they were about to commit. And the knowledge that she wanted this as badly as he did, that she was this wanton and ready for him, was the most powerful aphrodisiac he had ever known. He stood in the shadows, a silent observer, letting the tension build until it was a living thing in the space between them, thick and heavy and ready to snap.

A floorboard in the hallway gave a low, protesting groan. It was a sound Keana had never noticed before, but tonight, in the charged stillness of the house, it was as loud as a gunshot. Her eyes snapped open. The sensual haze evaporated, replaced by a jolt of ice-cold adrenaline. She wasn't alone.

Slowly, every muscle in her body screaming in protest, she turned her head. And there he was. A dark, broad-shouldered silhouette standing in the entryway to the kitchen, one hand braced against the doorframe. Maurice. He wasn’t just a shadow; he was a solid, menacing presence, a predator who had found his prey exactly where he’d expected to.

Her breath caught in her throat, a choked, silent gasp. Her heart didn't just beat; it slammed against her sternum, a frantic, trapped thing. He saw. Oh, fuck, he saw everything. He saw her swaying to the music. He saw her grinding her cunt against his fucking kitchen counter. A wave of shame, so hot it felt like it could scald her from the inside out, washed over her. But something else rose with it, something dark and thrilling and utterly depraved. Excitement.

His eyes, even from across the room, were black pits of intent. They weren't the kind eyes of the father who smiled at his children. They were the eyes of the artist who drew women bruised and broken in pleasure. They raked over her body, from her flushed face down to her hips still pressed against the marble, and she knew he could see right through the denim. He knew she was soaked for him. He knew she was aching.

The R&B singer’s voice, which had been a private, sensual cocoon moments before, was now a public indictment, the lyrics about wanting and touching and fucking echoing obscenely in the thick silence between them. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. The air crackled, heavy with every filthy thought that had passed between them through text messages and sketchbook pages. The last vestiges of their professional relationship—Mr. Henderson, the boss; Keana, the babysitter—crumbled into dust and blew away in the suffocating quiet.

All that was left was this: a man and a woman, separated by ten feet of polished tile and an entire world of unspoken want. His gaze dropped, deliberate and insulting, to the front of his trousers. She couldn't help but follow it. Even in the dim light, the thick, hard ridge straining against the fabric of his slacks was unmistakable. He was rock-hard. He wanted her to see it. He wanted her to know that the sight of her, wanton and waiting in his kitchen, had made him this way.

Her pussy gave a violent, clenching throb in response. The shame was gone, burned away by a raw, primal need. She didn't look away. She met his gaze again, her lips parting slightly. Let him see the desire in her eyes. Let him see that she was just as far gone as he was. The silence stretched, a taut wire of tension pulled to its breaking point. It was no longer a question of if, but of who would move first to finally make it snap.