I Nannied for a Widower Who Plays a Voicemail Meant for Me novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: Locked Door
The next night Bridie sets her terms, Jude goes down on her, and they have sex for the first time; he leaves his phone on her pillow with the recording open.
He knocked once, at ten past midnight, and I opened the door before his knuckles came down a second time.
The monitor sat dark on the nightstand with its power button off.
Posy was asleep across the hall with her rabbit.
Her father stood in my doorway in a gray T-shirt and flannel pants, barefoot, with his hair still wet.
He smelled like soap and the cold outdoors.
"I played it," he said.
"Quietly. With the door shut."
"And?"
"And I said good night to her.
"And then I came here."
He didn't step in.
His hands hung at his sides, and I watched him decide not to touch me until I said so.
I liked that more than I could have told him.
"Rules," I said.
"Okay."
"Nothing where Posy can see or hear.
"Not the hall, not the stairs.
"Only in here, with the door locked."
"Yes," he said.
"And I'm not a stand-in for anybody."
His jaw tightened.
"You're not."
"Say my name," I said.
"Bridie."
His voice dropped. "I've thought about nothing but your name since the kitchen."
I took his wrist, pulled him over the threshold, and shut the door with my other hand.
The lock clicked.
He had me against the wood before the sound finished.
One hand was flat beside my head and the other was in my hair, and his mouth came down hard.
I kissed him back just as hard.
He tasted of toothpaste and want, and he made a rough sound when my tongue touched his.
My hands went under his T-shirt and found hot skin over thick muscle, scarred in places, with a line of hair running down his stomach.
I dragged my nails across it.
He shuddered all the way through.
"Take it off," I said.
He pulled the shirt over his head in one move and dropped it.
He was broad and heavy-shouldered, with a chest covered in dark hair going gray.
A long old scar ran across his ribs, from a trap line that got him years ago.
I put my palm over it.
His heart slammed under my hand.
"You're beautiful," I said.
He stared at me.
Nobody had told this man he was beautiful in a long time, and I watched it land.
"Your turn," he said, and his hands found the hem of my sweatshirt.
I raised my arms.
He peeled it off me, then the T-shirt under it, and I stood there in my bra and pajama shorts with the light on.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"God," he said.
"Look at you."
"Touch me."
He did.
He cupped my breasts through the cotton, his thumbs dragging over my nipples until they went hard and my breath caught.
Then he unhooked the bra with one hand and let it fall, and bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth.
I groaned and held his head against me.
His beard scratched and his tongue was hot and slow, and every pull went straight down between my legs.
"Bed," I said.
"Now."
He lifted me.
He carried me three steps and laid me down in the middle of the quilt.
He stood at the edge of the mattress looking at me, his chest heaving.
I hooked my thumbs in my shorts and pushed them down, and kicked them off.
I lay there naked in the lamplight with my knees apart, and I watched his eyes go black.
"I want your mouth," I said.
"Where?"
"You know where."
He knelt on the quilt and slid his big hands under my thighs, and spread me open.
"Look at you," he said again, hoarse.
"You're wet already," he said.
"You did that."
"I did that."
He sounded almost amazed.
He put his mouth on me.
The first slow lick went from my entrance to my clit, and I cried out and slapped my hand over my own mouth.
He growled against me and did it again.
He was patient and thorough and certain, and I wriggled and gasped under his tongue.
He found the exact place and stayed there.
He circled it, flicked it, sucked it between his lips, and one thick finger slid inside me and curled.
"Oh, fuck.
"Jude.
"Right there."
"Good girl," he murmured against my clit.
"Tell me what you need."
"Don't stop.
"Don't you dare stop."
He didn't.
A second finger joined the first, and he worked them in time with his tongue.
The pleasure built so tight and fast that I was shaking.
I bit my own wrist to keep quiet.
My hips rolled up against his mouth, and he held me down with one forearm across my stomach and took everything I gave him.
"Come for me," he said.
"I want to feel it."
I came with a cry I smothered in my arm.
It broke over me in long waves, my back arching off the bed and my thighs clamped around his head.
He kept licking me through it, slower and softer, until I pushed at his shoulder.
He lifted his head.
His beard and his mouth were wet and shining.
He looked at me, pleased with himself.
I pulled him up the bed by his hair and kissed him, tasting myself on his tongue.
"Pants," I said.
"Off."
He shoved the flannel down and kicked free, and I looked.
He was hard, flushed and thick and curving up against his stomach, with a bead of wet at the tip.
Bigger than I'd guessed.
I wrapped my hand around him and he hissed through his teeth.
"I want your cock inside me, Jude. All of it. Now."
"I haven't been with anyone in two years," he said.
"I didn't know why."
"Now you know."
I guided him against me and held him there, the broad head sliding through my wetness.
His forearms shook on either side of my head.
"Please," he said.
"Look at me while you do it."
He pushed in, slowly.
He was so thick that I felt every inch of the stretch.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and dug my heels into his backside to pull him deeper.
He went all the way in with a groan, and stopped, buried, trembling.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"You feel so good."
"Move."
He moved.
He started slow and deep, long strokes that dragged against everything inside me, and he watched my face the whole time.
Every time I gasped he said it back.
"That's it.
"That's it, Bridie.
"You take me so well."
Heat rolled up my spine.
I hadn't known I wanted to hear that until he said it, and then I wanted it again.
"Tell me," I said.
"Tell me what I'm doing to you."
"You're killing me.
"You're so tight and so hot, and I've thought about this since the kitchen.
"I thought about your mouth.
"I thought about this."
He drove in harder and I met him, my nails dragging down his back.
The bed knocked softly against the wall.
He caught it with one hand and held it still, still thrusting, careful of the child across the hall.
That small act of care undid me.
"Harder," I whispered.
"I can't be loud.
"I'll be quiet.
"Harder."
He gave it to me.
His hips snapped against mine, and the sound was wet and obscene.
He pushed one hand between our bodies and pressed his thumb on my clit.
My whole body clenched.
"Oh, God.
"There.
"There."
"Come on my cock," he said, low and rough.
"Let me feel you."
The second one broke over me all at once.
I came with my face in his neck, biting down on his shoulder to hold the scream in.
My body tightened around him in long pulses.
He lost it right behind me.
His rhythm broke, and he shoved deep and shuddered and groaned my name into my hair as he came hot inside me.
He collapsed on me, careful with his weight, and we lay there breathing.
His heart pounded against mine.
After a while he rolled onto his side and gathered me against his chest, and I put my head under his chin.
"That was the best thing that's happened to me in twenty months," he said.
"I know," I said.
"I should say something sensible."
"Don't."
He kissed my hair.
He lay still, and then he said, very softly, "I have to be on the boat at four."
"Go to sleep," I said.
"I'm not going to sleep."
"Then lie here."
He lay there.
At three-thirty he got up, dressed in the dark, and set something on my nightstand.
It was his phone, with the recordings app open on a gray bar that said Callie, 11:52 p.m.
"Listen in the daylight," he said.
"Tell me what you hear that I can't."
The door shut softly behind him.
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