Page 16 of The Nanny Game Plan
My alarm screams from the nightstand.
I groan. Wince. Then groan again as the volume kicks up, the way I programmed it to do, so I wouldn’t loll about in bed being depressed until noon. Again.
I slap at it, miss it, slap again, and finally, mercifully, the air falls quiet.
I creak my eyes open, peeking at the clock.
10:01 AM on a Sunday in New Orleans, not the Algarvian Base Camp. My bedroom, not a command tent. No furs, no Commander Kate, just my flamingo pajamas, and an ache between my legs so intense it borders on pathological. All because Dean drove home to be a good dad, who doesn’t bang his teammates’ “little sisters,” and I came upstairs to mourn the loss of a steamy night, I’d been so certain was a sure thing.
But itwasn’ta sure thing.
Sob.
And yes, I came on Dean’s hand, but that only made me want the real thing even more. To want it so much that my brain decided to whip up some kinky troll penis dreams featuring Dean as my foxy commander.
I have warrior princess dreams all the time—a hazard of reading too many fantasy novels—but they’ve never had troll penis in them before. Or much man penis, to be honest. My dreams are usually G-rated.
But not this morning.
If only I hadn’t woken upbeforeDean spanked me while he fucked me hard from behind. If only he’d finished the job in my dream, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling sounfinishedright now.
I press my thighs together, but that only makes the ache between them even worse. Soon, my clit is pulsing out an S.O.S., while my vagina gently weeps into my cotton panties. It suggests, in a tearful voice, that I should write a song about it, a la The Beatles’ “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” but about a tortured, miserable vagina that no one loves enough to touch. Not even the woman it belongs to…
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Fine.”
I slip my hand beneath my waistband, close my eyes, and try to appease my weepy puss. I know my body. I know exactly what angle, what pressure, what rhythm gets me there in under three minutes. I've been doing this since I was a teenager. It’s muscle memory at this point.
But my fingers aren’thisfingers. They’re not big enough, and they don’t come attached to a man who’s sexy and warm and smells like heaven. I rub and circle, but every time I get close, the wave wimps out, refusing to break. Not without something more serious than my hand, anyway, and my vibrator is all the wayacross the room in a bathroom drawer, and I’m too annoyed to come now, anyway.
I exhale a frustrated breath and glare up at the ceiling.
This is all Dean’s fault. He ruined my perfectly functional solo sex life by giving me a taste of the real thing. One bright, beautiful taste, only to turn tail and run away in his stupid truck with his stupid morals to do stupid things like take care of his kids during a snowstorm.
Fine, none of that is stupid, but it feels like such a waste.
“We could have made magic together, Nutasha,” I whisper, pulling my stuffed squirrel into my arms.
There, there, love. Don’t fret yourself. I’m here. I’m always here,Nutasha P. Bettersquirrel says in her cozy English accent.
In my head, she sounds like the teapot from Beauty and the Beast, the one I used to wish was my mom when I was a kid.
The thought reminds me of Karen’s fake Irish accent.
Of how far people will go to make their dreams come true.
And of my final meeting for the nanny gig in just a few short hours…
It’s not my “dream” to be a live-in childcare provider, but the Hendersons seem like a great couple, and I’m excited for my fresh start. I’ve never been a full-time nanny before, but I have loads of daycare experience. I’m great with kids, and the Hendersons are jazzed for me to teach Gus how to read sheet music. He’s only five, but when it comes to a musical education, it’s never too early to start.
Which reminds me…
I push off the covers, dragging myself out of bed to toss my iPad into my “moving to the Hendersons” suitcase before I forget. I have a program on there that makes it easy to learn the different chords.
Luckily, I don’t have to pack all my stuff yet—Beatrice isn’t planning to rent my room out again, and she and Blue won’tneed it for the baby for several months. Charlie will sleep in a bassinet in their room to start—but I’ve done my best to get things ready to move or store, anyway. I don’t have that much, and I haven’t had much to do lately. Once it became clear that I couldn’t get around the diner as well as I used to, my hours kept getting cut until, by the end, there was almost nothing left, and a girl can’t live on one or two lunch shifts a week.
This nanny opportunity came along at the perfect time. I’m so grateful that Charlotte, Beatrice’s sister-in-law, thought of me when she heard a local agency was looking for nannies. I’m so grateful that Tasha, my new boss, didn’t blink an eye at the fact that I don’t have any recent childcare experience since I left my daycare gig in Missouri.
I am grateful. I am.
