â° The Perfect Nanny
pairing | married!bucky x ghost!reader
word count | 17.8k words
summary | the house was supposed to be a fresh start for him and sharon. then you arrived, all soft smiles and gentle hands⊠too good to be true.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, rough sex, fingering, piv, married!bucky barnes, haunted house, ahs: murder houseâinspired, cheating, DUB/CON, erotic thriller, infidelity, corruption kink, voyeurism, exhibitionism, masturbation, lesbian sex, scissoring, oral sex (f&m!receiving), nat eats pussy like a champ, ghost!natasha romanoff, ghost sex, natasha x reader, supernatural manipulation, mindfuck, guilt & shame, soft domination, power play, manipulative behavior, innocent act / devil core, corrupting a married man, praise kink, degradation kink (light), begging, breeding kink (implied), creampie, aftercare (manipulative), ghosts can touch you here, mentions of death, haunting as seduction, obsessive love, manipulative reader, slow burn to madness, murder fantasy
a/n | what if you were just a normal man. trying to fix your marriage. and your house is haunted. and the ghost is hot. and she wants you. and your wife doesnât. and now you're hallucinating lesbian sex and creaming your pants. hypothetically.
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated âšâš
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divider by @cursed-carmine
Youâd been watching them from the moment they stepped inside.
Leaning against the upstairs railing, chin balanced in your palm, you had a perfect view of the foyer from aboveâthe dark wood banister framing you like a picture. You didnât bother hiding. People never looked up when they moved into new places. They were too distracted by open floor plans and fireplace mantels to notice the house looking back.
They were a good-looking couple. You could admit that.
HeâBucky? James? You werenât quite sure which was correctâwas the one you couldnât take your eyes off. The kind of beautiful that didnât come from effort. Big and broad, hands hanging heavy at his sides like he didnât quite know what to do with them unless he was working. He moved like someone used to fixing things. Rough around the edges in a way that made your chest tighten.
You noticed the little things first. The faint line between his eyebrows when he looked around, like he didnât trust the silence. The way he kept glancing at the stairs, like he already felt you.
His wife called him Bucky when she was telling him where to put things.
James, when she was annoyed.
The wifeâs name was Sharon.. He called her âShar.â She was pretty. Blonde, neat, not a hair out of place. But she had that look some women get when they think their prettiness is a punishmentâlike being admired has always been a nuisance, and sheâs never quite forgiven the world for it. You watched her for less than three minutes before you felt your mouth pull into a grimace.
She was cold. The kind of cold that didnât show up in arguments, but in absence. In how she kept her eyes on her phone while he carried in their things. In how she barely responded when he asked if she wanted water. How she picked at her nails when he complimented the space like he was trying to make her smile.
She didnât. Not once.
You wondered when she stopped noticing him. And more importantly, how long it would take before he noticed you.
Then came the sound. A faint wail, sharp and high.
BuckyâsâJamesââhead snapped toward the door instantly.
His wife didnât move.
He was already halfway down the steps when the back of his shoe caught on the tile. Still carrying boxes. You stepped back into the shadows before he passed, but not in a rush. He didnât look up.
You heard the front door creak open. Then his footsteps pounding down the porch. Then the soft hush of a babyâs cry being soothed outside.
You stayed upstairs just listening.
The front door opened again. Then came the soft shuffle of footsteps returning insideâhe was carrying her now.
Your eyes lit up at the sight. A baby girl.
Tiny and warm in his arms, face scrunched from crying, little fists curled against his chest. She had his eyes, you were pretty sure, though it was hard to tell from up here. He bounced her gently as he walked, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing her back.
âThere we go,â he murmured. âSee? Told you it was nice, huh? Big olâ house. Lemme show you around.â
He held her like she was something delicate, like he was afraid heâd get it wrong. As he walked past the entryway and into the living room, he kept talking to her in that soft, low voice. Pointing things out.
âThatâs the kitchen. Where Mamaâll burn toast.â
You smiled.
âAnd thatâs the fireplace. Donât touch it, though. Dangerous stuff, fire.â
He moved like he was giving her a tour sheâd remember. As if she could understand a single word. You liked that. A lot. There was something about itâabout a big man talking gently to a baby girlâthat felt so good you had to grip the railing a little tighter just to ground yourself.
Then Sharonâs voice cut through it. Flat. Dry. From the far side of the room.
âShe doesnât know what youâre saying, Bucky.â
Just like that, the mood shifted.
He paused mid-sentence. Didnât say anything. Just kissed the babyâs head once, and turned toward the stairs.
You pulled back into the shadows again, smiling to yourself.
You werenât worried. That baby girl already had more warmth in her short life from him than Sharon probably ever allowed herself to feel.
And you? You were starting to want them both.
Days passed quietly.
They brought in boxes. Furniture. Settled into routines.
And you watched. From the hallway. From the corners. From the attic vent with the slats just wide enough to see through. You had time, after all. Time and patience.
You learned his name first. James Buchanan Barnes. But he went by Bucky.
You liked James better. It suited him. Solid. Gentle. The kind of name you could sigh into a pillow, soft and warm. But Bucky was what people called him when they liked him. His coworkers. The guy on the phone asking about estimates.
Contractor. Thatâs what he did. Worked with his hands. Built things. Fixed things. Came home smelling like wood shavings and sweat.
Most days, he looked tired. Not unhappy, not reallyâjust⊠hollowed out. Like someone had taken everything warm and soft in him and set it aside for later.
His wife barely spoke to him when he came in. Sometimes she was on her laptop. Other times she was on the phone, walking barefoot through the house like it didnât creak under her. Like the place hadnât already decided it didnât like her.
You tilted your head, studying them from the bannister as he came in one evening, pulling off his flannel. She didnât look up. He said, âHey.â She didnât answer.
It made you wonder. Why this house?
Surely theyâd heard the stories. The real estate agent mustâve mentioned something. Even if only in hushed tones or vague disclosures. The internet was full of it. The neighbors talked.
The deaths. The disappearances. The things that happened in the walls. From the day it was built in 1922, this house had been hungry.
People didnât just die here. They clawed. They screamed. They bled through the floors.
You would know. And yet, this family walked in like it was any other house on the block. Like the walls didnât whisper. Like the attic didnât have teeth.
Oblivious. Or maybe just desperate.
You smiled, teeth tucked behind your lip as you watched Bucky kneel to unlace his work boots. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat. One hand rubbed the back of his neck like it hurt.
You wondered what his skin tasted like when it was warm like that. You were still watching him, his broad back bent over the boots, the roll of his shoulders under flannel, when she appeared beside you.
No sound. No warning. Just a whisper of red silk and cigarette smoke.
âThought you didnât do married men.â
You didnât look at her. Just let your cheek rest against the bannister, lips pulling into a slow smile.
âShe doesnât want him,â you said softly. âSo why can't I?â
Nat huffed, leaning against the opposite railing like she was bored at a party. Her eyes flicked down toward the living room, where Bucky was now scooping up the baby againâcooing under his breath, kissing her temple like she was something made of sugar.
âYouâre gonna eat that poor man alive.â
You smiled a little wider, âMaybe he wants to be eaten.â
She let out a low laugh. It scraped the edgesâmocking, but not unkind. âYou always were good at pretending youâre innocent.â
âIâm not pretending,â you murmured.
Nat rolled her eyes, pushing off the railing. Her red nails tapped lightly against the wall as she walked past you, slow and unhurried. She paused at the top step, glancing back.
âWhen his wife finds your panties under his pillow, donât come crying to me.â
âI wonât,â you said sweetly. âSheâll just think theyâre hers.â
Nat disappeared with a smirk, heels clicking once before silence swallowed her whole. Downstairs, Bucky was laughing at something the baby did. Soft and low and tired.
You stayed where you were. Thinking about how nice it would feel to cup his face between your hands. To slide into his lap. To be the reason he laughed like that.
It was the crying that did it.
High-pitched. Gasping. That helpless baby wail that came in sharp bursts, like her lungs couldnât quite keep up with how upset she was.
It echoed through the house, cutting through every wall.
You waited... Listened... Waited some more.
No one came.
Downstairs, Sharon was on the phone. You could hear her through the vents.
âNo, youâre supposed to let them cry it out. Self-soothing. Thatâs what the book said. If you pick them up every time they scream, youâll just train them to be needyââ
You didnât listen to the rest. Just turned toward the nursery and started walking.
The crying got louder as you reached the hallway. You knew the rhythm of it nowâthe breathless hiccups, the desperation in it. She was terrified. You could feel it.
The door was cracked open. And then you saw her.
Small figure. Dark curls. A pillow in her hands. Inching toward the crib.
Your steps didnât falter, but your voice dropped smooth and slow.
âMorgan,â you said gently, âwhat are you doing?â
She turned to you like sheâd been caught sneaking sweetsâwide brown eyes, little hands wrapped tight around the pillowâs edge. Her white dress swayed slightly as she shifted, bare feet making no sound on the hardwood.
âI just wanted her to stop crying,â she said.
Your head tilted. You kept your voice light, even smiled a little. âThatâs not how we do that.â
You walked over, plucked the pillow from her grip. She let go without fuss, eyes still big and blinking.
âThen how?â she asked.
You didnât answer her. Just rolled your eyes, stepping past her toward the crib.
Beccaâs face was red, tiny fists thrashing in the air. The moment you leaned in and scooped her up, the crying quieted to soft, broken hiccups.
âHi, pretty girl,â you whispered. âYouâre okay. Youâre okay.â
You rubbed her back, swaying gently, cooing softly into her hair. Becca quieted quickly in your arms.
You held her close, pressing your cheek to her soft hair as you paced slowly by the window. Her tiny hands still trembled, and every few seconds she let out a shuddery breath, but the worst of it had passed.
âThere we go,â you whispered. âThatâs better, isnât it? Just needed someone to hold you, huh?â
She didnât answer, obviously, but the little way her fingers curled into your blouse made your chest ache. Poor thing. Left to cry herself hoarse in a room full of strangers and ghosts.
You swayed with her a moment longer, then glanced back toward the doorway.
Morgan was still there, arms crossed, lip stuck out in a pout.
âYouâre not supposed to be in here,â she said.
âNeither are you.â
She ignored that, âYou were gone all morning. I was bored.â
âThen find someone else to play with.â
Morgan narrowed her eyes at you. âI wanted to play with you.â
âIâm not in the mood.â
âYou said youâd play dolls with me yesterday.â
âAnd you tried to smother a baby today,â you said lightly. âSo now weâre not on speaking terms.â
Her mouth dropped open in childish offense, âI was only helping.â
You didnât bother arguing. Becca stirred in your arms, letting out a soft coo, and you shifted her slightly, letting her rest her cheek against your collarbone. Your voice stayed soft.
âGo find one of the others. Maybe Natasha will let you braid her hair.â
Morgan scowled. âShe said no last time.â
âThen try harder.â
She stomped one bare foot on the nursery rug, crossing her arms even tighter.
âYouâre supposed to be a nanny,â she snapped. âYouâre not very good at it.â
You raised your eyebrows at her.
âIâm a nanny for babies. Not spoiled dead five-year-old girls who throw tantrums and try to kill babies.â
Morganâs glare deepened. She opened her mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. After a beat, she huffed and turned toward the hall, âIâm telling my mommy.â
âGo ahead,â you said, smiling sweetly. âIâll tell her what you tried to do too.â
She vanished down the hall with an angry little stomp.
You looked down at Becca again, brushing a thumb along her soft cheek. âDonât worry,â you murmured. âIâm not gonna let anyone hurt you. Youâre mine now.â
You caught the raised voices first. Muffled, clipped.
You followed them down the hall and found Peter already crouched behind the staircase wallâeyes wide, grinning.
âYouâre gonna get caught,â you whispered.
He didnât even look at you. Just waved you closer like it was a sold-out show.
âTheyâre really going at it,â he whispered back. âShe didnât tell him.â
âTell him what?â
âShe got a job.â
You arched an eyebrow. âIsnât that good?â
Peter glanced at you like you were new, âNot if you donât tell your husband.â
You both peeked around the corner at the kitchen. Bucky stood near the fridge, hands braced on the counter, jaw clenched. Sharon stood across from him, arms folded tight, expression unmoving.
âYou werenât even gonna mention it?â Bucky asked, voice low, like he was trying not to yell.
âYou wouldâve made it a thing,â Sharon said, flat. âYou always do.â
âIt is a thing. Youâre going back to work and didnât think I should know?â
âIâve been not working for a year,â she snapped. âSince Becca was born. Since my whole goddamn life got put on pause. Just because Iâm a mother now doesnât mean I stop being a person.â
Bucky didnât move. His hands just tightened against the countertop.
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
He dragged a hand through his hair, stepping back from the counter like it had burned him.
âThen whoâs gonna take care of her, Sharon? Iâm on site all day. Youâreâwhatâback in court now? Gone twelve hours a day?â
âWeâll get a nanny,â she said.
And just like that, your stomach turned.
You blinked, once. Nanny. Another woman. Another stranger. Hands on your baby.
âThereâs plenty of agencies,â Sharon added. âItâs not hard.â
âYou donât even like people,â Bucky shot back. âYouâre gonna leave our daughter with a stranger?â
âBetter than being raised by two miserable parents who canât stand to look at each other.â
That one landed like a slap.
Bucky didnât respond. Just turned and opened the fridge like the conversation was over, even though it wasnât. Sharon scoffed and walked off, heels clicking as she moved toward the stairs.
Peter leaned back on his heels, wide-eyed.
âWow.â
You were still staring into the kitchen. A nanny. They were going to bring someone else in.
You didnât want that. You wouldnât let that.
Her name was Jean.
Jean Grey. Vibrant red hair and wide green eyes, the kind of girl who smiled with her whole face and didnât seem to notice when people talked down to her. She smelled like peonies and dish soap.
You hated her.
Not because she was mean. Or cruel. Or even bad with Becca. No, that was the problem. She was perfect.
She cooed at the baby like she meant it, swayed with her in the living room while Sharon typed away in the dining room. She even brought her own toysâwooden, handmade, "developmentally enriching."
Bucky seemed grateful. Sharon seemed smug.
And youâŠyou could only watch.
From the hallway. The banister. The mirror over the mantel where your reflection didnât quite show.
âSheâs sweet,â Peter had whispered to you one morning as Jean settled Becca down for a nap.
âThatâs what makes it worse,â you murmured.
You didnât like how she spoke to Bucky, either. Too casual. Too friendly. Not flirtingânot really. But she had that soft voice. The kind that made men lean in.
And Bucky⊠well. He didnât lean. But he listened. Nodded. Gave her that tired little smile, the one that meant thank you and I donât know what Iâm doing but Iâm trying.
That was your smile. He was supposed to give you that.
Youâd spent the whole week with your arms crossed, hidden behind walls and light fixtures and attic beams. Watching. Listening. Waiting.
By Thursday, youâd had enough.
You were sitting cross-legged in the upstairs hallway when Nat appeared beside you, filing her nails with a bone-handled emery board.
âYou look like youâve been killed again,â she said.
âShe doesnât belong here.â
âSheâs a nanny,â Nat shrugged. âA living one. This is literally her job.â
âShe touches Becca like she owns her.â
âYou sound insane.â
âShe touched his shoulder.â
ââŠso murder, then?â
You didnât answer. Just stood and brushed invisible dust off your dress. Nat snorted behind you.
âYouâre so dramatic.â
You were already halfway down the hall. The idea came to you the same way everything else did in this houseâslow, sweet, inevitable.
You needed to stay close to Bucky. You needed to protect Rebecca. And you couldnât do that with strangers coming and going, smiling too brightly, leaving their scent behind.
So first, youâd get rid of the current one. And then make sure thereâd be no others.
Which only meant one thing really. And this is how you found yourself climbing the attic stairs.
The air grew colder the higher you went. Not just temperature, but presence. The house got heavier up here. Thicker. Books lined the wallsâsome dusty and broken-spined, others fresh as if bought yesterday. Candles flickered on their own. The windows never opened. No matter how hard you tried.
He was already waiting. Of course he was.
Loki sat in an old wingback chair near the back window, bathed in the sickly light that filtered through the stained glass. One leg crossed over the other. Shirt half-unbuttoned. Rings glinting at his fingers.
He looked like a bored prince in exile.
âWell, well,â he drawled as you approached. âCome to scratch that itch again, darling?â
You rolled your eyes. âDonât flatter yourself.â
Still, you slid into his lap like youâd done it a hundred times before. Because you had. His hands came to your hips automatically. Possessive. Greedy.
âYou only sit here when you want something,â he murmured, voice low against your throat.
âI always want something.â
He laughed, soft and dangerous. âTell me.â
You leaned in, arms draped lazily around his neck, lips brushing his ear, âThereâs a girl downstairs.â
âThere are many girls downstairs.â
âThis one thinks she belongs here. With the husband. With my baby.â
He hummed thoughtfully, fingers tracing idle circles along your thighs. âYouâre jealous.â
âNo,â you said sweetly. âIâm just possessive.â
His grin widened. âYou want me to scare her?â
You tilted your head, giving him a soft look. âI want her gone. I want all of them gone. Before they even think of showing up.â
âAnd what do I get in return?â
You sighed, letting your head drop against his shoulder in annoyance, âGod, youâre exhausting.â
âAnd yet,â he murmured, âhere you are. On my lap. Coming to me for favors.â
âWhat do you want?â
He leaned in, lips grazing your cheek. His breath was cool and slow.
âJust a kiss.â
You blinked. âThatâs it?â
âFor now.â
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, âFine.â
You sat up straighter and leaned in, intending to give him the barest brush of lipsâsomething bored and lazy and over with in a second. But before you could pull away, his hand slid into your hairâfingers curling tight at the nape of your neckâand yanked you in deep.
His mouth crushed against yours, open and greedy, tongue sliding past your lips with practiced ease. He kissed like he wanted to own something, like he was taking back payment owed. He groaned softly into your mouth, low and pleased, like heâd waited all week for this.
You shoved against his chest. Hard.
He let go with a laugh, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he wanted to savor what was left of you.
You wiped your mouth on your sleeve. âAsshole.â
âYouâre welcome.â
You stood, straightened your dress, and glared at him, while Loki lounged in the chair like a man whoâd just won something.
âYour wish,â he said with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, âis my command, my darling.â
Jean didnât last a month.
By the third week, she was sobbing on the porch at two in the morning, suitcase in one hand, cross necklace clenched in the other.
Said she heard whispering in the walls. Said something grabbed her ankle when she was walking to the nursery. Said there were scratches on her mirror that werenât there when she went to bed.
Sharon told her she was being dramatic. Bucky offered to call her a cab.
You watched from the upstairs landing, chin resting on the banister, a slow little smile curling at your lips.
Loki appeared beside you a second later, smug as hell, as if waiting for praise.
âWhispers and shadows?â you murmured.
âOh, sweetheart,â he said, still watching the scene below. âYou shouldâve heard her scream.â
Emma came next. Tall, polished, platinum blonde. Said she specialized in newborns. Wore pearls around the baby and refused to eat gluten. You hated her on sight too.
She didnât even make it two weeks.
Something spooked her so bad after the first week, she locked herself in the guest bathroom and refused to come out until sunrise.
Said the baby monitor crackled with voices. Said she saw red eyes staring at her from the mirror. Said she woke up with bruises on her thighs she couldnât explain.
She was gone before breakfast.
Then came Raven. Quiet. Kind. Sweet to the baby.
And still? Gone after four days.
Anna Marie lasted just two. Barely.
By the end of it, Bucky and Sharon were stunned. Confused. Exhausted.
Bucky stood in the nursery with Becca in his arms, rocking her gently while Sharon paced the hallway, phone to her ear, tryingâagainâto get a nanny agency to send someone who wouldnât leave screaming in the middle of the night.
âThatâs the third one, James.â
âFourth,â he corrected, gently rubbing the babyâs back.
âWhat the hell is wrong with this house?â
âNothing,â he said, but he didnât sound sure.
She turned to him, exasperated.
âWe canât keep doing this. I have to go back to work, and you canât just drag her to job sites.â
He didnât answer right away. Just kept rocking the baby, frowning down at her little face.
âItâs like theyâre scared of her,â Sharon muttered.
âItâs not her,â Bucky said quietly. âItâs this place.â
Sharon scoffed. âWhat, you think the house is haunted?â
He didnât respond.
You watched from the corner of the nursery, unseen, hands folded neatly in front of you.
They were unraveling. Right on schedule.
You waited until the morning sun cut soft through the treesâwhen the house was half-awake, when Sharon was still distracted with emails and the baby was just starting to fuss.
You picked a pink dress because it made you look sweet. Fresh. The kind of girl who wore lotion that smelled like strawberries and always used please and thank you. You wore your natural hair loose. You dabbed perfume behind your earsârose and vanillaâand made sure your shoes made a little sound on the porch steps, as you appeared at the front door.
Then you knocked. Twice. Firm, but friendly.
The door opened a moment later. And there he was.
Close up, Bucky was even more handsome. Older, yes, tired around the eyes, jaw scruffed and thick, but beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.
He looked like someone who was trying. A man who used his body every day. A man who didnât get told he was wanted anymore.
You tilted your head and smiled. Soft and warm.
âHi,â you said, voice light. âI heard youâre looking for a nanny?â
He blinked. Just for a second.
Eyes dragged over youâyour face, your dress, your hands gently clasped in front of you. And then he found himself.
âUhâyeah. Yeah, we are.â He shifted, opened the door wider. âCome in.â
You stepped inside, letting the scent of your perfume trail behind you.
âI live just a few streets over,â you introduced yourself as he closed the door behind you. âFigured Iâd drop off my resume in person. Iâve done a lot of nannying, but Iâve always preferred live-in jobs. Itâs easier when the babyâs still so little.â
He nodded, visibly grateful. He looked like a man whoâd been wading through a minefield for weeks and had just stumbled on dry land.
âDo youâuhâhave your resume?â
âOf course.â You handed him the folded paper.
He took it, glancing it over.
Youâd handwritten it, of course. Neat cursive. All made up. But it looked real. And it sounded even better. References that couldnât be called. Agencies that didnât exist. Dates that never happened.
But he didnât know that. He just saw someone who might finally help.
âThis is⊠this looks great,â he said, scratching the back of his neck. âYou, uhâyou want to meet my wife?â
âIâd love to.â
You smiled againâperfectly pleasantâand followed him into the house.
The floor creaked beneath your feet. The walls seemed to breathe a little deeper.
And upstairs, Loki grinned to himself like a cat whoâd just watched a trap snap shut.
They sat you down at the kitchen table, sunlight slanting through the windows like butter across the wood.
Sharon was already in business mode. Crisp blouse, hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was flawlessâlike it had been applied by someone angry. She held your resume in one hand, a coffee cup in the other.
Bucky sat beside her. Less polished. Elbows on the table. Watching you with polite curiosityâand something else he probably didnât realize was there yet.
You folded your hands in your lap and smiled sweetly.
âSo,â Sharon said, skimming the page. âYouâve worked with infants before?â
âYes, maâam. A few times.â You nodded softly. âEvery familyâs a little different, but the first yearâs always the most delicate.â
Sharon tilted her head, intrigued.
âWhat made you want to do live-in care again?â
âI like the stability of it,â you said, tone gentle. âItâs easier to form a real bond with the baby when Iâm not coming and going. Iâve always felt like thatâs important. For them to know Iâm there.â
Bucky glanced at Sharon. Just briefly. That had hit something.
âAnd your last family?â Sharon asked. âWhy did that end?â
You smiled again. A little tighter this time. The kind of smile that said thereâs a story here, but Iâm too polite to tell it.
âIt just didnât work out,â you said softly. âThings got⊠complicated. And they decided to move.â
You didnât say, âThe wife thought I was sleeping with her husband. She waited until he left the house. She had shaky hands, but good aim.â
You didnât say, âThe last thing I heard was the baby crying from his highchair. The last thing I felt was tile against the back of my skull.â
And you didnât say, âMy bones are buried in the backyard under the gazebo.â
You just smiled. Blinked slow. Kept your voice warm, âI still think about the little one sometimes. He was sweet.â
Sharon nodded, satisfied.
Bucky, meanwhile, was still looking at you. There was a quiet softness in his eyes now. Something not quite affection. Not quite interest. But it was building.
âWell,â Sharon said, glancing at him. âI donât see any red flags.â
âMe neither,â he said quietly.
You folded your hands neatly on the table and gave them both your best, most grateful smile.
âIf you give me the chance, I promiseâIâll take good care of her.â
And just like that, it was done.
It didnât take long for him to start looking for you.
Little things, at first. Youâd be humming in the nursery and heâd stop just outside the door, listening like he didnât mean to. Youâd be folding laundry and heâd lean in the doorway for no real reason, asking questions he already knew the answers toâjust to hear your voice. Just to have you talk to him like you saw him.
Not the way Sharon did. Not with exhaustion. Or obligation. Or nothing at all. Noâyou looked at him like you wanted to be here. Like he was someone worth noticing.
You were always kind to him. Gently teasing sometimes, sureâbut always soft. Always careful. You said thank you when he fixed the leaky sink. You smiled when he walked into the room. You greeted him at the end of the day like it meant something that he came home.
And he started smiling back. Started lingering. Started softening.
Even the baby seemed happier. She giggled when he walked in the roomâchubby arms lifted for him to hold her. He didnât say it, but you could see it in his face: he liked that. Liked that she didnât fuss when he picked her up. Liked that you were always nearby, watching him like he was doing something right.
You were patient. Patientâbut starving. You waited until the house was quiet at night, then drifted through the halls like a shadow with purpose.
Sometimes you watched him in the shower.
Just for a few seconds. Maybe more. Always from the corner, always just barely there. The mirror would fog and the water would thunder and he wouldnât even know you were watching.
But you did.
His body wasâGod.
All scars and strength. His back was broad, muscle stacked thick and wide beneath wet skin. You watched the soap trace down his spine, down to the slope of his ass. Watched the way his hands worked over his chest, up to his hair. His cock hung heavy, half-hard from the heat, water sliding down it like a promise.
You watched him breathe. You watched him groan.
You imagined slipping in behind him, pressing your lips to the base of his neck. Sliding your hands down his hips. Whimpering into his ear like a thing in heat.
Soon, you thought. Soon.
Sometimes you watched them, too.
Not often. But when it happened, you didnât look away.
You'd be passing byâdrifting quiet down the hallway in the middle of the nightâand youâd hear it: the creak of the bed, the faint sigh of sheets moving, the low, rhythmic grunt of Bucky's breath.
You shouldnât have stopped. Shouldnât have stayed. But you did.
You stood just outside their doorway, eyes fixed on the half-open crack, and let yourself see.
And what you sawâ
It wasnât even the sex that held you there. It was her.
Sharon, lying stiff on her back, like a woman enduring something. Her hands didnât move. Her head turned slightly to the side, face angled toward the dark. Her lips parted only once, when Bucky pressed his mouth to her throat. She didnât kiss him back.
She never kissed him back. And Bucky⊠he tried. God, he tried.
You watched his hands press into the mattress, shoulders trembling slightly as he moved over her, inside her. He groaned her name once. Tried to nuzzle her jaw. Tried to look her in the eye.
She didnât meet his gaze.
You couldnât understand it. How someone so warm could be left so cold.
You watched the muscles in his back flex, scarred hips rolling steady, slow, as he worked himself deeper into a woman who barely made a sound.
Your fingers curled against the wall. Your heart ached with something sick and sticky.
Howâ
How did she not melt under him? How did she not cling to him, bite his neck, beg him to stay inside?
Didnât she feel the weight of him? The size of him? The way his hands looked, gripping the sheets like he was trying to hold on to a version of himself that still believed she wanted him?
You wouldâve cried. You wouldâve screamed. You wouldâve clawed your nails down his back and begged him to break you open.
But Sharon just blinked at the ceiling. And when it was over, she turned away from him without a word.
Bucky stared at the ceiling for a long time after that. Long enough for the room to cool. Long enough for his heart to slow. Long enough for you to burn.
You turned from the door and drifted back down the hall, biting your lip, your pulse thrumming hot between your legs.
You were going to ruin him. You were going to make him feel what it was like to be wanted.
Really, truly wanted. Until it made him sick. Until it made him yours.
You made sure to start off small.
A brush of fingers when you passed him a plate. The pads of your fingertips grazing his palm just a little longer than necessary. Always paired with a smile. Always soft. Always innocent.
You never apologized for touching him. Never recoiled like you shouldâve. Never treated it like an accident.
And he didnât flinch eitherânot at first. Not when you touched his arm to get his attention. Not when you stood a little too close while asking how to work something. Not when your hand steadied on his chest one afternoon as you reached behind him for a glass.
âYouâre warm,â youâd said casually, your palm pressed to his heart, âBig guy like youâbet you run hot all the time.â
Heâd laughedâawkward, scratchy in the throat, âGuess so. Can be a pain in the ass sometimes.â
You didnât move right away. Just looked up at him with that soft little smile of yours, âI donât mind.â
Then you grabbed the glass and turned away like nothing happened.
He didnât speak after that. Not for a full minute.
The next day, you found him fixing the light above the kitchen sinkâarms flexed, white shirt pulled tight across his chest. You stood behind him, rocking Becca gently in your arms.
âYouâre so good with your hands,â you said, soft as a breath.
He paused mid-turn of the screwdriver. Looked over his shoulder.
You smiled, like you didnât even realize what youâd said.
âI meant the light,â you added lightly. âYouâre always fixing things. You must be really good at building stuff.â
His jaw clenched a little when he nodded.
You hummed and bounced the baby a bit, âMust be nice. Being able to make things work with your hands.â
He wouldnât look at you for the rest of the day. Which only made you smile wider.
You knew he was watching before you bent down. You could feel itâthat low heat crawling over your skin. That heavy silence, like someone holding their breath.
It was late. The house was quiet. Sharon had taken the car to work. Becca was already asleep. You were downstairs in the laundry room, humming to yourself, folding towels in that little sheer nighty youâd "forgotten" to change out of.
It clung to you in the dim light. The blue one. Soft lace at the hem, loose straps sliding down your shoulders. It barely skimmed the bottom of your thighs when you stood straight. And when you bent downâŠ
You did it slow. Deliberate.
Like you were tired. Like it was just a chore. Like you hadnât carefully chosen this moment, this outfit, this exact angle.
You reached for a dropped sockâand let your hips tilt just right. Let the nightgown lift. Let the cool air hit your bare skin.
No panties. Not even a thong. Just soft, warm, slick flesh on full display.
And still, you didnât turn around.
You let the moment stretch. Pretended not to notice. Your head tilted slightly, like you were focused on the laundry basket, like you hadnât heard that sharp exhale behind you. Like you hadnât felt him freeze behind the doorframe.
He didnât move. Didnât clear his throat. Didnât make any excuse to leave. He just stood thereâstill as a man struck dumb.
You reached for another towel, still bent low, and let your thighs part just an inch more. Just enough to glisten. Just enough to catch the light.
But you didnât straighten.
You let him look. Let him take it. Let the guilt start to fester under his skin. Let the shame build into something wet and sticky and so much worse.
Then, finallyâfinallyâyou stood.
Smoothed the hem down over your ass, turned toward the door with a lazy yawn. But by then, of course, he was gone. Too fast to be casual. Too slow to be innocent.
And that night, when you heard the water running in the upstairs bathroomâand the sound of his hand slapping hard against skinâyou smiled into your pillow and touched yourself to the rhythm of it.
Tonight you left the door ajar on purpose.
Just a little. Just enough to make it look accidental. The crack wide enough to frame the corner of the mirror. The mirror angled just enough to reflect the bed.
You were laid out like sin incarnate.
Shirt shoved up around your ribs, breasts bare to the warm night air. One hand pinching lazily at your nipple, the other buried between your thighsâfingers gliding slow and sticky, soaked with how long youâd been playing.
You moved like you werenât in a rush. Like you werenât even trying to cum.
No, this wasnât for you. This was a performance. And your audience had just arrived.
You heard him before you saw him. Heavy footfalls down the hallâthen pause. Silence.
Your mirror showed you everything. Bucky. Standing outside your room. Just barely in view. Just far enough to pretend he didnât know better.
He wasnât moving. But his hand was.
Pressed flat against the front of his pants, fingers curling tight, grinding down on the bulge there like he couldnât not. Like he couldnât breathe unless he touched himself.
You moaned. Quiet, but not too quiet. You made sure he saw the way your hips rolled against your hand. Made sure he saw the way your slick coated your knuckles. The way your fingers pumped slow, sloppy, obscene.
You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, âOh, BuckyâŠâ
It wasnât loud. But it was clear. The sharp jerk of his shoulders said he heard it.
You peeked through your lashes, heart fluttering at the sightâhis hand moving faster now, more urgent, as if his body betrayed him. As if he hated himself for it even while he groaned quietly through clenched teeth.
You smiled. Tilted your hips and let your fingers go even deeper. Let him know exactly how wet you got just thinking about him. And when you cameâslow and quiet, back arching just enough to lift off the mattressâyou made sure your eyes were on him.
You watched him cum too, just seconds later. Still clothed, still standing in the hall. Gasping like heâd just been stabbed. Shame twisting across his face as he stumbled back into the shadows, breath heavy, laces still undone.
You lay there, breathing slow. Smiling.
After that, he couldnât even look you in the eye anymore. Not for more than a second or two.
Heâd flinch, glance awayâpretend he forgot what he was about to say. Pretend he was tired, distracted, sore from work. Youâd catch him hovering in the doorway to the kitchen like heâd forgotten why he came in. Or answering you with clipped words, mumbling into his coffee cup like it could hide his mouth.
And you just smiled. You played your part like it was nothing.
Sweet. Gentle. Helpful. That soft, low voice you used whenever you asked him if he wanted more eggs, more sugar in his coffee. That same smile you gave him when Becca squealed in your arms and he lit up like it was the first real joy heâd felt in months.
You, so soft. So clean. You, with your dresses and your pretty hair. You, who couldnât possibly know the things heâd seen.
What heâd done.
How his hand had been sticky when he went to bed. How your voice echoed in his head like a curse. How shame burned in his chest every time you touched his shoulder or brushed past him in the hallway and he hoped it would happen again.
You didnât say anything.
Not about the way he fumbled with the newspaper when you came into the room. Not about the way he dropped a plate when your fingers grazed his. Not about the way his jaw clenched when you leaned too close with Becca on your hip, your breath warm on his cheek as you laughed at something small and stupid.
You let him suffer. Sweetly. Silently.
And every time he mumbled your name or avoided your gaze, you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
Because he thought you didnât know. He thought you were just a sweet, oblivious girl. He thought he was the sinner, and you were the angel he was ruining.
It was almost adorable.
If only he knew how long youâd been watching him. How many times youâd imagined his hands around your throat. How many times you came to the thought of him begging you to stopâand you whispering, âBut I donât want to stop, Mr. Barnes.â
Now, he couldnât even sit next to you without shifting in his seat. Couldnât hear your name without tightening his fists. Couldnât sleep without dreaming of you, waking up soaked and aching and disgusted with himself.
And all you ever gave him⊠was that soft smile. âGood morning, Mr. Barnes. Did you sleep well?â
Like you didnât know he hadnât. Like you didnât know exactly why.
He came home looking like the day had tried to wring him out.
Boots heavy on the tile. Shoulders stiff beneath the fabric of his shirt, soaked through at the collar. The front door shut too hard, not quite a slam but just enough to make you pause. Your hand stilled on Beccaâs blanket as you tucked her in.
You gave it a minute. Then padded down the hall.
The kitchen lights were dimmed to warm gold. Bucky was sitting at the island, elbows on the counter, face in his hands. He wasnât doing anything. Just being. That sort of heavy silence that clung to people whoâd been carrying too much all day and had no idea how to put it down.
You stepped in, voice soft. âRough day?â
He exhaled through his nose, sat up a little. His eyes found youâbut only for a second, âYeah. Little bit.â His voice was lower than usual. Scratchy, like he hadnât spoken in hours.
You moved easily around the kitchen. The kettle on. Mug pulled from the cupboard. You didnât ask what kind of tea he wantedâyou already knew. Honey chamomile. One sugar. No lemon.
âBeccaâs down,â you said gently, glancing over your shoulder. âDidnât even fuss tonight.â
He gave a tired smile. It didnât quite reach his eyes. âThatâs good.â
You walked over, setting the mug in front of him, the ceramic warm between his fingers. Your hand brushed hisâaccidentally. Not really.
He didnât move.
âMrs. Barnes not back yet?â
He shook his head. âWork thing.â
There was no emotion behind it. Not anger, not resentment. Just resignation. The quiet kind.
You leaned against the other side of the island, arms resting atop the granite, body close enough to feel the warmth of him radiating in the stillness between you.
âYou always come home looking like this when sheâs not here,â you said softly.
His brows ticked upward. âLike what?â
You tilted your head, eyes tracing the lines of strain on his face. âLike the worldâs sitting on your back. And no oneâs ever offered to help carry it.â
He didnât answer. Just stared into his tea like it held something deeper. A pause stretched between youâcomfortable for you, unbearable for him.
You smiled gently. Then pushed the mug a little closer to his hands. âDrink. You look like you need it.â
His fingers wrapped around the mug. Rough, calloused. Hands that built things. Repaired things. Worked themselves to the bone.
He looked up at you again, slower this time. And for a momentâjust a secondâthere was something vulnerable in his eyes. Something tired. Something that made your pulse flutter with heat.
You gave him a small smile, âYou work too hard, Mr. Barnes.â
He let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. And shook his head. âYou donât always have to call me that.â
âWhy not? It suits you.â
Your voice was just on the edge of teasing. Just enough to make him shift in his seat. Not uncomfortableâjust⊠aware.
You could feel it happening. The gentle unraveling.
The way his shoulders lowered. The way his eyes lingered just a bit longer on yours. The way his hand didnât move when yours brushed his again as you reached to take the sugar spoon.
You didnât need him to kiss you. Not yet.
You just needed him to need this. This moment. This feeling. You.
You watched the way his shoulders moved when he exhaledâone slow rise, one slower drop. The tea was almost gone now. His calloused fingers tapped idly against the ceramic, like he couldnât quite unwind no matter how hard he tried.
âYouâve got tension in your neck,â you said gently, rounding the island as you dried your hands on a tea towel. âCan see it from here.â
He huffed a small laughâjust air and exhaustion, âYeah, well. Comes with the job.â
You gave a tilt of your head, stopping behind him, âContracting?â
âNo,â he murmured. âBeing married.â
That made you smile. He didnât see it. So you moved closer, voice light, teasingâlike it was nothing.
âYâknow⊠youâre not the only one around here whoâs good with their hands.â
He turned a little, glancing back at you. You could see the way his brows lifted slightlyâhalf amused, half confused.
âYou offering me a massage now?â
âMhm.â You stepped behind his chair, the towel now slung casually over your shoulder. âWhat kind of nanny would I be if I didnât take care of everyone in the house?â
He let out a breath, shaking his head. âThatâsânah, thatâs alright. You donât have to do that.â
âI want to.â
Your hands brushed lightly over the back of the chair, fingers ghosting the fabric just inches from his shoulders. âCome on, Mr. Barnes. Let me help.â
He hesitated. You could feel it in the pause. Hear it in the slight clink of the spoon against his mug as he placed it down carefully on the counter.
âYou sure?â
âCourse Iâm sure,â you said softly. âNow lean forward.â
He didâreluctantly. His forearms resting on the kitchen island as your fingers finally touched his shoulders. And immediately, his whole body tensed. He was warm. Solid. Tight like a wire strung too long and never loosened.
You started slowâthumbs pressing gently into the muscles where his neck met his back. Circling, kneading. You could feel his resistance like static under his skin. Like he didnât want to give in to how good it felt.
But then he sighed. Deep. Almost involuntary.
âJesus ChristâŠâ
âTold you,â you murmured, lips curving as you leaned in a little. âGood with my hands.â
His head dipped. Shoulders sagged beneath your touch. And that was all the permission you needed.
You worked your way down slowlyâthumbs dragging along the base of his neck, the curve of his spine, the edges of his shoulder blades. Firm pressure, purposeful. Like you were unwinding him thread by thread.
You watched his hands. How they flexed and relaxed. How his fingers twitched like he didnât know what to do with them.
âYou carry so much tension here,â you whispered, fingers pressing just under the blades of his shoulders.
âYeah,â he rasped. âJust⊠part of it.â
âWell,â you said softly, leaning close enough for your breath to skim his ear. âYou donât have to carry it all tonight.â
Your hands moved slower, more intentional. No longer just soothingâbut searching. Palms dragging along the muscles of his shoulders, the slope of his spine, the tension that pulsed beneath his skin like something alive.
You werenât doing it to help anymore. You were savoring him.
âThere,â you murmured, kneading into a spot that made his hips shift forward a little in the stool. âFeel that?â
He let out a low grunt, biting it back halfway through.
âYeahâfuck.â
The sound made your stomach flutter. Your core clench. You smiled, sickly sweet, âLanguage, Mr. Barnes.â
His reply was a breath. A half-laugh. Tired, flustered, âSorry.â
You hummed, trailing your fingers over the base of his neck. You knew he was trying not to react. You knew what you were doing to him.
His hands gripped the edge of the island. Not to hold himself steadyâbut to ground himself. You could see the tension in his forearms, the way his head hung forward, chin tucked to his chest like he didnât trust himself to look at you.
And then another sound slipped outâsofter this time. A low, guttural exhale that came from deep in his chest when you pushed your thumbs just beneath his shoulder blades.
God.
Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. You imagined him above you. Inside you. Making that same sound into your throat as you whispered sweet things in his ear and begged him to give you more.
Your thighs pressed together.
âYouâre so tense,â you said, voice dropping slightly. âWhen was the last time someone did this for you?â
He didnât answer right away. When he finally did, it was low. Rough, âLong time.â
âThatâs a shame.â
Your hands skimmed lower, just above his waist now. Still innocentâbut only barely. You leaned in, breath warm against the side of his neck.
âA man like you should be touched more often.â
He stiffened.
You felt itâright under your hands. His body went rigid. His breath caught. His fingers gripped the counter. And still, he said nothing. No protest. No step away. Just⊠stillness. Like he didnât trust himself to move.
You let your palms settle on his back, thumbs brushing softly, voice barely a whisper. âAll that strength, Mr. Barnes⊠and no one to take care of you?â
This time, when he exhaled, it shook.
You swallowed your smirk, dragged your nails lightly down the fabric of his shirtâjust enough to make him twitch. You pretended not to notice the way his hips shifted. The way he shifted to hide what you already knew was there.
His cock was hard. And he hated it.
âI shouldâŠâ His voice cracked a little. âI should probably check on Beccaââ
âSheâs fine,â you murmured. âSleeping like an angel.â
You rounded the chair slowly, hands brushing the tops of his shoulders as you stepped in front of him. He couldnât even look at you.
So sweet. So ashamed. So ready.
You smiled, soft and pretty, âWant me to keep going?â
His jaw clenched. His hands were still white-knuckled on the island. He nodded once. Barely. His jaw tight.
âYeah,â he said, voice low. Hoarse. âOkay.â
So you started with his arms.
You took the left one between your handsâhis thick, scarred forearm lined with sinew and years of workâand rubbed your thumbs into the muscles with slow, practiced care.
And still, he wouldnât look at you. Just stared somewhere past your shoulder. His lips slightly parted.
âYâknowâŠâ you said softly, head tilting, âyou never answer me when I compliment you.â
He blinked slowly, eyes drifting to yours like it took effort, âWhat?â
âWhen I say nice things to you,â you smiled. âYou always act like you didnât hear.â
His lips twitched. But it wasnât amusement. It was guilt. Embarrassment. Maybe shame.
âGuess I donât hear that kind of stuff much anymore.â
Your thumbs worked up his arm, just under the short sleeve of his t-shirt. You pressed into the tension there, soft and deliberate.
âYou should.â
His eyes closed. He swallowed.
You moved to the other arm. Slower now. Letting your hands linger on his skin just a moment longer than necessary.
And then they drifted. Lightly. Across his chest. Not a grope. Not overt. Just a gentle press of your palms, circling the center of his chest where the tension was thickest.
You could feel the heat radiating off him. His heart beat strong beneath your hands.
His cock strained visibly against the front of his jeansâand the second your eyes flicked downward, he shifted, thighs squeezing together as if to hide it.
Like it was shameful. Like it was unwelcome.
âSorry,â he muttered under his breath, eyes squeezing shut. âFuckâI didnât meanââ
âDonât apologize.â
Your voice was barely above a whisper now, âItâs not a bad thing.â
His mouth parted, eyes searching yours like he couldnât tell if you were mocking him. Or testing him. Or tempting him.
(Spoiler: you were doing all three.)
You let your hands stay on his chest a little longer. You liked the way he breathed under your palms. How his ribs moved. How his throat flexed when he swallowed hard, over and over again.
âYouâre really tense here too,â you said, thumb grazing near his collarbone.
He only hummed. A barely-there sound. So dazed. So quiet.
You leaned in a little. Voice softer than ever, âYou can let go, Mr. Barnes. I wonât judge you.â
His eyes flicked up to yours againâand there it was. Need. Not desireânot yet. But need. Quiet. Gutted. Heavy. Like he hadnât been touched or praised or looked at like this in years.
And still, he said nothing. But he didnât stop you.
Not when your hands dipped just slightly lower. Not when you pressed your thigh subtly between his knees. Not when your fingertips grazed the hem of his shirt like you were testing the weight of that silence.
His breath hitchedâand that was it.
That tiny, broken sound cracked through the moment like a fault line.
He stood suddenly, stepping back so fast his thigh bumped the stool leg. It scraped against the tile with a sharp screech.
âIâuh. I shouldâŠâ he cleared his throat, avoiding your eyes as he ran a hand down his face. âI should go shower. Andâget some sleep. Long day tomorrow.â
His voice was tight. Brittle.
âOf course,â you said softly, taking a graceful step back. Hands folding in front of you like you hadnât just been touching him like a man you wanted to devour. âYouâve earned it.â
He gave you a tight, forced smile. Didnât quite meet your eyes.
âThanks for the massage,â he mumbled, then turned.
He was out of the kitchen in a few quick strides, broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt, like they were holding the weight of what he almost let happen.
"Goodnight," you called lightly.
But he didnât answer. Just disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps thudding quick and uneven against the wood.
You waited a moment. Let the silence settle. It was getting exhaustingâwatching him pull away just when he was ready to fall into you.
You leaned against the wall, arms crossed lightly as your eyes drifted toward the stairwell.
You were getting impatient. Youâd done everything.
The soft smiles. The innocent touches. The vulnerable looks. Youâd watched him bite his tongue raw trying not to moan under your hands. Youâd watched his eyes drift toward your tits like he was fighting for his life. Youâd caught him jerking off in the shower with your name bleeding out of his mouth like a sin.
And still⊠nothing. No kiss. No stroke of his hand down your back. No whispered invitation to his bed.
He was trying so hard to be good.
But you didnât want him to be good. You wanted him desperate. You wanted his hands shaking as he gripped your thighs. You wanted him to apologize to God after.
Your nails tapped absently against your arm as you thought.
He was scared, sure. Guilty. Thought of himself as broken and unworthy. Still loyal to a wife who didnât touch him. Didnât see him. Didnât care if he came home most nights.
While you gave him tea. Rubbed the ache out of his shoulders. Giggled at his jokes. Smiled when he walked in the room like heâd brought the sun with him.
And still he couldnât let himself have you.
But everyone breaks eventually. You just needed to help him along.
You pushed off the wall, mind already moving faster than your feet. New ideas rising like heat under your skin.
Something bolder. Not a touch. Not a glance. Not a whisper behind his chair. Something he couldnât ignore. Something he couldnât explain away as accidental.
Maybe youâd walk in on him half-dressed, pretend to be embarrassed, linger just a little too long. Maybe youâd let the straps of your nightgown fall when you âdidnât know he was there.â Or maybeâŠ
Maybe youâd make him jealous.
Let him see you bent over for someone else in the dark, panting and moaning as if he wasnât the only one you wanted. Let him ache with it. Let him snap.
Your thighs pressed together at the thought.
God, you couldnât wait anymore.
Your mouth was watering for him. Your cunt slick just from the memory of his voice. The way heâd whispered your name like it was a plea. Like it tasted too good to say out loud.
He wanted you. You knew it.
It was time to give him no choice.
It was cold again. That brittle kind of chill that settled in the floorboards when October came creeping. The kind that pressed into Buckyâs bones even though heâd turned up the heat.
He padded down the stairs in a t-shirt and sweats, bare feet against cool wood, rubbing a hand over his face. The house was silentâBecca fast asleep upstairs. Sharon hadnât come to bed yet. Or maybe she had and he hadnât noticed.
He just needed water. That was all. But what he wasnât expecting was the candlelight. Soft and low, flickering against the far end of the hallway. Orange glow bleeding faintly across the entry rug like a secret.
He stilled.
A sound followedâlow. Wet. A breathless, shuddering little ahhh that made his skin prickle instantly.
And then another.
âOhâGodâŠâ
A voice he knew. Yours. He moved without thinking. Slow. Quiet. Stepping past the hall table and toward the living roomâheart in his throat, the glass forgotten in his hand.
And there you were. On the floor. Bathed in candlelight like a fucking painting. Your body arched, bare and glowing with sweat, the curve of your breasts rising with every shallow gasp. Head thrown back, lips parted, fingers threaded in hair that didnât belong to you.
A redhead.
Beautiful. Unfamiliar in a way that made his stomach twist. Pale hands gripping your thighs as her head moved between themâslow, deliberate licks that made your whole body jolt. Her mouth devouring you. Tongue working you open like it was the only thing sheâd ever learned how to do.
You were writhing. Helpless. Blissed-out. Moaning so softly it felt like a sin.
âPlease, Natâpleaseââ
He stood frozen. He couldâve left. Couldâve backed away. Shouldâve gone back upstairs and pretended he saw nothing. But his feet wouldnât move. His hands wouldnât unclench. He couldnât breathe.
You were so fucking beautiful. Your skin shimmering with sweat. The soft mound of your belly flexing every time she sucked your clit into her mouth. Your thighs trembling like you were about to break apart in her hands.
And worseâ
Worse than any of itâ
You were smiling right at him.
Eyes half-lidded and heavy, that sweet, familiar look of yours softening into something molten. You werenât startled. You werenât scared. You knew he was there. You wanted him to see.
And he did. He watched your lips part as your voice turned high and fragile and perfectâ
âF-fuck, Iâm gonnaââ
âand then you came.
Right in front of him.
Back arched. Toes curled. Moaning like you were begging God himself to spare you. And that womanâNatâkissed your inner thigh and smirked. Licked you once more for good measure.
Buckyâs hands were fists at his sides. His cock was hard. Hard like it hadnât been in years. Shame pooled in his gut like bile.
And you just⊠laughed. Laughed as you reached down to thread your fingers in the redheadâs hair and tilt her chin up. Kissed her slow and lazy and deep, like a reward. Like you had all the time in the world.
Then your eyes flicked back to him. You didnât stop smiling. Didnât flinch or pull away or pretend to be startled.
You just stayed right thereânaked, flushed, glowing with sweat and pleasureâlounging back against the pillows youâd dragged to the floor. Natasha stretched lazily beside you like a well-fed cat, licking her fingers and watching Bucky like he was the next meal.
But you were the one who spoke first, âDidnât mean to wake you.â
Your voice was soft. Sugar-sweet and teasing, like he was the one acting inappropriate.
Bucky stood there, frozen. He hadn't moved. Couldn't. His throat felt dry, and his fingers twitched at his sides, like he didnât know what to do with them.
âDidnât think anyone else was up,â you added, tilting your head.
You shifted, thighs nudging open a little wider, like it was accidental. Like you werenât dripping onto the carpet, still sensitive and warm and flushed from being eaten out in his living room.
âYou look tired, Mr. Barnes.â
The sound of his name in your mouth made something snap in his gut.
He swallowed harshly, âIâI just came down for water.â
âMm.â You nodded slowly. âYou look like you could use something else.â
He blinked, âIâwhat?â
You gave a little shrug, your lips parted just enough to make him wonder if it was intentional.
âI mean, look at you.â Your gaze droppedâslowly, deliberatelyâto the outline of his cock pressing against his sweats. âSo tense.â
Natasha chuckled low beside you, chin resting in her palm.
âSo easy,â she murmured, not looking away from him. âLike clockwork.â
You gave her a little glance, then turned your eyes back to him.
âYou could sit,â you offered, gesturing to the empty spot beside you with a lazy tilt of your fingers. âYou donât have to do anything. Just watch. If you want.â
His breath caught. His hands curled.
âOr,â you added sweetly, voice dipping lower, âyou could join.â
You saw it in the way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes dropped again to the curve of your bare thigh, the slick sheen between your legs, the redhead still purring beside you like a devil in disguise.
You leaned back on your elbows. Opened your legs wider.
âCome on, baby,â you cooed. âDonât you want to feel something warm for once?â
You saw the moment it hit him. The realization that he wasnât going to leave. He shouldâve. Any decent man wouldâve. But his feet didnât move. He stayed. And that was enough.
Natasha moved first, brushing her lips across your collarbone, slow and deliberate. Her tongue followedâdragging hot and wet across your skinâas she grazed her nails up the outside of your thigh. Her other hand slid over your stomach, fingers spreading, teasing just above your mound.
You sighed like it was nothing. Like she wasnât touching you at all. But your legs eased open wider.
Bucky made a choked sound.
Your eyes flicked up to him, soft and coy.
âShe likes to watch too,â you whispered, as if that explained anything. âBut not as much as you do.â
Natasha bit your shoulder. Not hardâjust enough to make you whimper.
You could feel his stare. Fixed right where he shouldnât be looking. His jaw was clenched, and there was a flicker of motion below his waistband where heâd shifted his stanceâadjusting, maybe. Or trying not to show how hard he was.
You tilted your head with mock sympathy. âThat bad, huh?â
He didnât answer. Just stared as Natashaâs fingers slid down and parted your folds. A wet sound filled the space. Slick, obscene.
His throat bobbed.
âI was just telling her,â you went on, breath starting to catch as Natasha toyed with your clit, âhow handsome you are when youâre tired. That little crease between your brows, the way your hands look at the end of a work dayâŠâ
âThey look heavy,â Natasha added. Her voice was velvet. âLike theyâd leave bruises.â
You let out a soft whine as her fingers slid lower againâjust barely dipping into you before retreating. Teasing. Taunting.
âDo you want to see what she feels like, Mr. Barnes?â she murmured.
You gasped. Half from her fingers, half from the way his name sounded in her mouth. Natasha dragged it out like it was something she owned. Your legs trembled.
âSheâs soaked,â Natasha went on, not even looking at him now. âAll this for you.â
âN-NatâŠâ You barely got the word out. âStop teasingâŠâ
But your hips were rocking, chasing her hand. Eyes locked on Bucky.
âYou sure?â she asked you. âBecause I think he likes it.â
You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering, âDo you?â
His hand twitched at his side. Then again. You couldnât tell if he wanted to boltâor come closer.
You clicked your tongue softly.
âGuess heâs not coming,â you sighed, pouting as you glanced at Natasha. âHis loss.â
She smirked like sheâd known all along. Didnât even look at him when her mouth found yours again, hot and open and lazy, tongue sliding against yours.
Your fingers were already threading into her hair. And then you let yourself fall back, slowly, your spine curving against the carpet, tugging her down with you. Your legs parted. And hers followed as her gorgeous body covered yours.
The heat of her skin brushed yours. Chest to chest. Lips to lips. Then lower.
She rolled her hips, and your thighs locked around hers. Wet. Warm. Center to center, slick meeting slick as your bodies found that perfect press. That grind.
You let out a whimper. And then another, âF-fuck, Natââ
She was panting already, her mouth dragging down your neck, nails digging into your hip as she moved. Slow, tight, steady rolls of her hips, wet friction spreading between you. You could feel her everywhereâtits pressed tight against yours, her thigh sliding against your pussy, her cunt sticky against your own.
You let it all out for him. Every moan. Every gasp. Every desperate whine that you couldnât hold back. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.
And he was still there.
You could see the way his chest rose and fellâshallow, ragged. His eyes didnât blink. Didnât even flinch when Natasha buried her face in your neck and you cried out from the pressure and the pace.
You moaned again, louder this time.
âBet he's touching himself,â you breathed.
Natasha smiled against your skin.
âHeâs not,â she whispered. âBut he wants to.â
You cried out againâsheâd changed the rhythmâfaster, harder now, and your whole body trembled.
âCome here,â you moaned suddenly, your voice cracking. âCome watch us up closeââ
But he didnât move. Still frozen, still wide-eyed, one hand clenched into a fist at his thigh. And so you didnât beg.
You just fucked Natasha harder. Writhing. Grinding. Nails clawing into her shoulder, your thighs twitching with every tight, wet rub of cunt on cunt.
The air was thick with itâsweat, sex, candlewax. And you looked up at him the whole time. Smiling. Like you knew something he didnât.
He was so fucking close.
Your voice was a sweet moan in the candlelight, breathless and fucked-out, as that woman's mouth moved down to your boobs, your hips bucking wildly against hers, soaked and sticky and glistening.
And heâGod.
Bucky's jaw clenched, eyes glued to the sight of you two, bodies tangled, writhing. His fists were clenched tight at his sides. His cock pulsed so hard it hurt, and he barely registered the tremble in his thighs, the guttural sound that ripped from his throat as heat built fast and brutal in his gut.
He was cumming. Right there. Just from watching. He didnât even touch himselfâ
And then he was awake. Gasping. Back arching off the mattress, damp skin sticking to sheets as he bolted upright in bed with a grunt. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts.
Sharon stirred beside him. Didnât open her eyes. Didnât turn toward him. Just let out a sigh and curled deeper into the duvet.
His pulse didnât calm.
A dream. Just a dream. His heart hammered. And then he looked downâJesus Christ.
There was a wet patch spreading across the front of his boxers. The kind that bled through the sheets. The kind he hadnât had since he was a goddamn teenager. His cock still throbbed slightly, twitching against the damp cotton.
He pushed the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed, bracing his elbows on his knees. His hands scrubbed over his face, trying to erase the images still clawing at the back of his eyelids. It had felt so real.
âFuckâŠâ
The candlelight. The slick sounds. The smell of rose and vanilla. The way your mouth had opened for that redheadâyour moans, your bodyâ
It was like he could still feel it. Still smell you.
He lay back down slowly. Didnât sleep at all after that dream. By the time morning came, his stomach was knotted with guilt.
Sharon had already gone downstairs to take a call, and he barely managed to drag himself out of bed, heart heavy and head spinning.
But it got worse when he stepped into the kitchen. Because there you were.
Sunlight spilling through the windows. Your hair was soft and unstyled, your body wrapped in one of those little dresses you liked to wear around the houseâshort, cotton, innocent. You were barefoot, moving calmly around the stove like you belonged there.
Like nothing had happened.
You glanced up at him, smiled sweetly.
âGood morning, Mr. Barnes. Did you sleep well?â
He blinked. Cleared his throat. Didnât answer. Didnât speak at all, just grunted and dragged a hand through his hair as he slumped into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
Couldnât look at you. Not once. Not when you brought him his coffee. Not when you knelt to wipe something off Beccaâs tray. Not when you turned around at the stove and the light hit your thighs just right.
Not when his cock twitched, again, already remembering the way your voice sounded when you moaned his name while another woman was fucking you.
Every time he closed his eyes, it was you. Not Sharon. Never Sharon.
You, with that soft voice and warm smile. You, who always touched his arm when you passed behind him. You, who smelled like rose and vanilla and temptation. You, who should not have been the subject of the thoughts that kept him hard through every shower.
It made him sick. No. Worse. It made him ashamed.
He wasnât some teenage boy with no self-control. He was a married man. He had a daughter. He had a wife, even ifâGod help himâshe hadnât looked at him with anything close to warmth in over a year.
But you did. You looked at him like he mattered. You laughed at his jokes. You fed his daughter with love. You always listened when he spoke. You saw him.
And nowâŠ
Now he was stuck in this disgusting cycle where heâd try not to think about youâreally tryâonly for his mind to spiral into images of your lips wrapped around his cock. Your eyes tear-glazed. Your thighs trembling as he fucked you open.
He hated himself for it.
He hated the way his hand would slide beneath the sheets before he could stop it. And worst of all, how he never lasted long. Because the version of you in his head? You begged him. You begged him to be rougher. You told him to use you. You moaned like a good girl, praised him for being big, for filling you so deep, for ruining you.
It wasnât just sex. It was filth. And he liked it? He liked how dirty it was. How good it felt to imagine pulling your hair and hearing you cry his name.
And thatâthatâwas what truly made him feel vile.
He was falling in love with a girl he should never touch. A girl who lived in his house, took care of his daughter, called him Mr. Barnes like she didnât know heâd already fucked you a hundred times in his mind.
So every morning, heâd avoid your gaze. Heâd sit at the table, quiet, shame burning in his throat like bile, while you handed him his coffee with a smile. He couldnât even say your name without remembering how it sounded in his head when you screamed it.
James.
Bucky.
Daddy.
Please.
His cock twitched just thinking about it.
At first, he tried to rationalize it. Said it was because you were pretty. Young. Sweet. Barely mid-twenties, soft around the edges, kind to his daughter. It was natural, wasnât it? To notice. To appreciate. He was still a man.
But then he started imagining things. Dark things. Depraved things.
Youâd lean over to adjust Beccaâs straps in the high chair and suddenly heâd picture you kneeling between his legsâeyes wide and innocent, mouth slick with spit as you smiled and waited for his permission to swallow.
In the middle of conversations, heâd zone outâwatching the way your tongue flicked the tip of your thumb before turning a page in your book. And his brain would replace it with your lips stretched wide around him, spit and drool running down your chin as you gagged on his length. Eyes watery, proud of yourself.
Sometimes heâd lay next to Sharon, listening to her steady breath, and his mind would conjure you againânaked and whimpering under him, begging him not to stop. Telling him how good it feels. How full you are. How youâve never taken anyone so big before.
And sometimesâ
Sometimes you cried.
Tears down your cheeks, eyes glazed, voice wrecked from screaming his nameâbut you didnât stop. You wanted it. Needed it. Told him youâd die if he didnât fuck you again.
Heâd wake up sweating.
Hard as a fucking rock. And ended up biting his fist when Sharon was asleep beside him, pumping his cock in furious silenceâfantasizing about you, not his wife.
He didnât even trust himself to shower anymore. Every time he did, it was like you were there. That perfume. That warmth. The ghost of your hands on his back, your lips at his shoulder, your voice cooing filth like it was a lullaby.
Heâd brace his arm on the wall, bite down on his forearm, and pump himself in the shower so quick and quiet it felt like punishment. He didnât even moan. Didnât say your name. Just came with a grunt and then leaned his forehead to the tile, full of shame.
He hated how much he wanted you. Hated how it wasnât just want anymore. It was⊠need. And it was rotting him alive, while you didnât even seem to notice.
You kept walking around in those soft, low-cut tanks that didnât hide a goddamn thing. No bra. No shame. Youâd smile up at him with wide, warm eyes like you had no idea how badly you were undoing him.
Youâd place your hand on his shoulder when you passed by. Brush your fingers across his palm when handing him Beccaâs bottle. Press your chest against his back when reaching around him to grab a dish.
And he started to think⊠maybe you did know. Because sometimes, youâd look at him a second too long. Smile a second too slow.
And when you hugged Becca goodbye for her nap, you always bent just far enough to show the curve of your ass under those dresses. The sheer fabric clinging to the softness of your thighs.
One day, youâd been washing dishes at the sink. The afternoon light behind you, your nipples visibly tight through your dress. And he imagined walking up behind you, grabbing your hips, and taking youâright there against the counter. No words. No warning. Just you arching, whimpering, crying out as he fucked you rough and ugly until you couldn't stand.
Then he imagined doing it again. And again. And again.
Until your voice was hoarse and your thighs trembled and your handprint was on the glass above the sink.
He shook the image out of his head. But it always came back. Like rot under the floorboards. Like temptation under his skin.
You floated through the house like sunlight, soft hands and soft voice and soft dresses that clung to your hips when the breeze came through the windows. You smiled at him like you didnât know what you were doing. Like you werenât undoing him.
And maybeâmaybeâyou werenât.
Maybe you really were that sweet. That good. That nurturing, soft-spoken little thing who had Becca asleep in her crib in six minutes flat, who never raised your voice, who left fresh tea in the microwave for him when he got home late from site.
But maybe not.
Maybe you knew exactly what you were doing when you leaned over to get a pan in the low cupboard, ass pushing back in those shorts. Maybe you meant for your shirt to slip off your shoulder when you stretched. Maybe you wanted him to think about you in the shower, fisting his cock like a sinner.
And those sounds had started getting more specific. Too specific.
He could hear you, sometimes. Hear you through the walls. Whimpers. Moans. Wet, lewd little noises. He told himself he was imagining it. But it always came right when he was trying not to think of you. Like something pulling him back in.
Heâd catch himself staring. At the curve of your neck. The slope of your thighs. The little gap between your legs when you sat on the couch and crossed your ankles in that silky nightdress.
And the thoughts⊠they werenât gentle anymore.
He didnât just want to hold you, or kiss you. No. He wanted to drag you onto the kitchen table and make you cry. He wanted to tear that dress in half and fuck you until you forgot your own name. He wanted to make you say his name. Over and over again.
He wanted to hear what youâd sound like with his hand on your throat. And that terrified him.
Because he wasnât that man.
He loved his baby. He tried to love his wife. He wasnât some perverted old man with a thing for the nanny.
But every time you bent over to kiss Beccaâs cheek, he imagined how your mouth would feel on his cock.
Every time you called him âMr. Barnesâ in that voiceâsoft, low, liltingâhe imagined how it would sound breathless, broken, whispered into his ear with his hand buried between your thighs.
You werenât just sweet anymore. Not just the soft-voiced nanny with a kind smile and a calming touch. Noâsomething darker had started seeping in, curling around you like cigarette smoke.
And it clung to him. No matter how hard he ignored it. No matter how hard he tried to fuck his wife and pretend it wasnât you he was seeing when he came.
It had been building. And now it was snapping.
Sharon was gone. Becca was napping. The house was quiet, too quiet. And there you were.
In the kitchen. At the sink. Bubbles on your wrists. Hair up in a lazy little knot, neck bare and warm. Wearing his wifeâs apron.
And smiling like you didnât know.
Like you hadnât been haunting his dreams, like you hadnât been playing with yourself just down the hall from his marriage bed. Like you werenât the goddamn devil.
He didnât even realize he was walking until the glass in his hand banged on the kitchen island.
You turned just as he entered the room.
âMr. Barnes,â you said sweetly, drying your hands, that same lilting voice you always used. âWant some tea? The honey and chamomile kind you like isââ
âStop,â he snapped.
You blinked, head tilting just slightly. âIs everything okay?â
His jaw clenched, breath shallow, chest rising in hard bursts.
He stepped closer. âYouâve been toying with me.â
âMe?â You pressed your fingertips to your chest, looking perfectly bewildered. âIâI donât know what youââ
âDonât,â he growled. âDonât lie to me.â
He was close now. Too close. The air shifted. The light seemed to dim as his presence crowded the room, heavy and unrelenting. His hand slammed against the cabinet beside your head, not touching youâbut nearly. You didnât flinch.
His voice dropped to something colder. Rougher.
âYou think I donât see what youâre doing? You think I donât hear you at night? The way you moanâfuck, the way you whimper my name in the darkââ
You parted your lips, only slightly, as if in protest. But said nothing.
âIâve been seeing things,â he hissed. âYou. In the mirrors. On top of me. Under me. Wearing nothing.â He laughed bitterly. âI wake up hard and ashamed and youâre always here in the kitchen the next morning, smiling like a little fucking saint. You think I donât know?â
You looked at him for a long moment. Silent. Innocent. Your hands still smelled like soap and lemon.
âI thinkâŠâ you said softly, with a little pout, âyou might be confused, Mr. Barnes.â
His hand slammed against the cabinet again, louder this time.
âYou donât get to pretend anymore,â Bucky snapped.
You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. âPretend what?â
He let out a breath like he could barely hold himself in. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful.
âThat youâre just the fucking nanny.â
You tilted your head. âI am the nanny.â
âCut the shit.â
His voice cracked around the wordsârage barely masking the desperation underneath. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Months of tension, of teasing glances, of him fucking his fist in the dark thinking about you and hating himself for it. It all hung in the air between you now, sticky and electric.
âYou wear those little dresses on purpose,â he hissed. âYou bend over when Iâm in the room. You look at me like you want me to lose control.â
âI would neverââ you started, placing your hand gently over his chest.
He stepped back like your touch burned him.
âIâve been good,â he snarled, voice trembling. âIâve kept my distance. I havenât touched you. Iâve let you stay in this house. With my daughter.â
âAnd Iâve been good too,â you said softly, lips twitching with something too close to a smile. âI clean. I help with Becca. Iâm always quiet when you and Sharonââ
âDonât.â He flinched. âDonât talk about her right now.â
You took a slow, careful step forward.
âI just want to make things easier for you, Mr. Barnes,â you whispered. âThatâs all Iâve ever wanted.â
He backed up another step.
âYouâre not sweet,â he snapped, pointing at you like he needed to convince himself. âYouâre not innocent. Youâre fuckingâyouâre the devil.â
âIâm just the nanny,â you said, eyes wide and lips pouty. âYouâre scaring me.â
You were lying through your teeth, of course.
Inside, you were thrummingâheart pounding, thighs pressed together, blood roaring in your ears. He looked so unhinged, so wrecked, so close. You swore you could see his cock already hard through the fabric of his sweats, the outline thick and twitching as he tried to fight it. His chest heaved with every breath. His eyes kept flicking to your lips, your throat, the swell of your breasts.
You licked your bottom lip slowly, like you didnât even know you were doing it. Just a nervous tick.
And thatâs what broke him.
Something feral snapped in his chest.
He reached out and grabbed you hardâhands at your waist, yanking you forward so your body collided with his. You let out the softest gasp and blinked up at him, all faux-confusion and perfect submission.
âIs something wrong?â you asked sweetly.
He snarled, âYouâre gonna fucking pay for this.â
One second, his hands were gripping your waistâtight, tremblingâand the next, he was lifting you like you weighed nothing, your back hitting the edge of the cold marble counter with a thud.
You gasped, but didnât fight it. Not even close.
His chest pressed to yours, his breath ragged as he hovered over you, eyes wild and unblinking like he barely recognized himself. Or maybe he didâmaybe this was who heâd always been underneath.
âYou walk around this house like some sweet little thing,â he growled, shoving your knees apart with one hand, the other curling around your jaw. âSmiling at me. Saying please and thank you like youâre fucking innocent.â
You blinked up at him, lips parted, heartbeat fluttering like hummingbird wings, âI just wanted to helpâŠâ
His laugh was low. Broken. Cruel.
âBullshit.â
He shoved your skirt upârough, fast, no care for fabric or modesty. The soft cotton bunched at your hips as his eyes dragged downward. He groaned when he saw youâno panties.
Of course.
âYouâre not innocent,â he hissed. âYouâre not sweet. Youâre the fucking devil.â
His fingers slid between your thighs and you gasped, a choked sound you didnât bother hiding. You were soaked. You knew it. Youâd been soaked since the second he raised his voice.
âI thought you were an angel,â he muttered, voice husky as he rubbed slow, heavy circles against your clit. âThe way you coo at my kid. The way you smile like the sun comes outta your mouth.â
His voice dropped lower. Meaner.
âBut youâre not an angel. Youâre a goddamn curse.â
You whimperedâquiet, like you didnât understand. Like this was too much, too sudden.
âI donât know what you mean,â you whispered.
He growled.
âYou know exactly what youâre doing to me.â
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear as his fingers dragged through your slick and then slapped against your cunt, making your thighs jolt and a low moan escape from you.
âYou walk around this house with no panties like youâre not begging for this. You leave your bedroom door cracked so I can hear you. Moaning. Playing with yourself. Calling my name.â
He pushed two thick fingers inside you and you gaspedâlegs jerking, your back arching against the cabinets behind you.
âTell me you donât want this,â he spat.
You looked up at him, blinking like you were confused, lips parted, chest heaving.
ââŠIâI just wanted to be helpful.â
He laughed again, teeth bared, and fucked his fingers deeper.
âLiar.â
His fingers worked deeperâthick and wet inside you, the heel of his palm grinding up against your clit with every thrust. Your hips were already starting to twitch, legs falling wider apart on the counter. You looked like a dream. A hallucination. A trap disguised in skin.
Still, you played the part.
Soft moans spilled from your lips, breathy little whimpers like you didnât know what was happening. Like you didnât know what you were doing to him. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter behind you, knuckles white, lips parted.
âM-Mr. BarnesâŠâ you gasped, fluttering around his fingers. âThatâs notâ this isnât appropriateâŠâ
He snarled under his breath and shoved his fingers deeper, faster, twisting them just right. The wet sounds were obscene in the silence of the kitchen. The marble was cool beneath your thighs. Everything else was fire.
âYouâre soaked,â he growled. âSoaked and shaking. You wanna pretend this is some accident?â
You bit your bottom lip. And thenâ
Your hips rolled down into his hand. Your fingers crept forward and curled in the collar of his shirt. And your voice⊠oh, your voice turned darker.
âSuch a bad husband,â you whispered, the words dripping from your lips like venom in honey. âNeglecting your wife. Fucking the nanny in your kitchen.â
His entire body jolted.
Your lashes fluttered as you looked up at him, all sugar and sin. âWhat would she say if she saw you like this?â you murmured. âTwo fingers deep in the babysitter while your daughter sleeps upstairs.â
His jaw flexed.
You smiled.
âI always thought you were lonely,â you cooed. âWatching me. Wanting me. Touching yourself and pretending it wasnât me you were thinking about.â
He groanedâlow and brokenâand crooked his fingers just right, dragging against the spot that made your knees shake.
âPoor thing,â you gasped, still teasing, still sweet. âDidnât she give you what you needed? Is that why youâre so desperate now?â
He growled and slapped your clit with his slick fingersâonce, then again. You cried out, bucking into the sensation, breath caught in your throat.
âSay it,â he demanded. âSay what you are.â
You gasped, eyes locked with his.
âIâm the nanny,â you whispered.
He pulled his fingers out with a wet sound and grabbed your jaw.
You smiled.
ââŠand your filthy little secret.â
He yanked your face toward him, mouth crushed to yours in a brutal, messy kissâno sweetness, no hesitation. Just teeth, spit, heat. His fingers were still slick with your arousal as they fisted in your hair, tugging your head back.
âYouâve been begging for this,â he rasped. âEvery look. Every little dress. Walking around this house like you fucking own me.â
You gasped against his mouth. âI do.â
That was all it took.
He stepped back just enough to free himselfâshoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and angry, leaking at the tip. You moaned at the sight of it. Thick. Heavy. Already twitching for you.
âSpread your fucking legs,â he growled.
You did it slowâalmost mockingâdragging your heels up onto the edge of the counter, thighs falling open for him like a promise. Your cunt glistened, soaking wet and so ready for him, fluttering around nothing.
âLook at you,â he muttered, staring down at your dripping hole like he hated you for it. âFucking dripping for me. Goddamn whore.â
And then he lined himself up and slammed into you.
You cried outâhead falling back, hands flying to grip the counter as he bottomed out in one punishing thrust. Your walls clamped around him instantly, fluttering, sucking him deeper, and he groanedâloud, guttural, like heâd waited years for this.
âFuckâfuck, youâre tight,â he gasped. âYouâve been walking around this house like this? With this perfect pussy just waiting to be fucked?â
You moaned, high and helpless. âMr. BarnesâŠâ
His hips snapped forward, driving into you harder. Rougher. The counter rattled beneath your ass, your body jostling with every thrust.
âWhatâs my name?â he snarled.
âJames,â you gasped.
He growled againâmore animal than manâand leaned down, hand wrapped around your throat now as he fucked into you like it was a punishment.
âYou think this is what good girls do?â he hissed. âLet married men fuck them in their kitchens while their baby sleeps upstairs?â
You choked out a laughâbroken, breathless.
âGood girls donât exist,â you moaned. âNot in houses like this.â
You clenched around him and he nearly collapsed forward, forehead dropping to yours.
âYouâre sick,â he panted.
âIâm yours.â
His cock throbbed inside you at that, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt again and again, each thrust angrier than the last.
âTell me Iâm better than her,â you whispered, eyes rolling back. âTell me that I'm a better fuck than she ever was.â
He bit your shoulder. Hard. His grip bruised your hips.
âYou fuck me like you hate me,â you breathed. âAnd itâs soâfuckingâgood.â
He went rabid.
His thrusts got harder, meanerâhips snapping into yours, cock dragging against the deepest part of you like he wanted to bruise it. Like he wanted to own the shape of your insides.
âJesus fucking Christ,â he growled, voice wrecked. âI shouldâve done this the first night. Shouldâve bent you over that goddamn crib andââ
âThen why didnât you?â you gasped, legs trembling around his hips. âToo scared to fuck the nanny, Bucky?â
He slammed into you so hard the entire counter jolted, dishes rattling in the sink.
âWatch your mouth,â he hissed. âYouâre fucking lucky I don't tie you up and leave you in the basement for this.â
You let out a soft, breathless moan, hands curling in the front of his shirt.
âOh, Iâd like that,â you whispered. âAll alone in the dark with nothing but your cock.â
He groaned like it hurt him.
Your cunt clenched around him as he fucked into you harder, faster, chasing the high with wild eyes and flushed skin. You swore you saw him falterâlike he was closeâand you smiled, soft and teasing, like it wasnât ruining you just the same.
âYouâre gonna cum,â you murmured, smug and dreamy. âInside me. While your wifeâs name is still on the mail.â
âShut the fuck up,â he panted, but his voice cracked.
âYouâre such a bad husband,â you gasped. âFucking the nanny in your kitchen. Putting a baby to bed and then stuffing me full. You think Beccaâs gonna call me mommy someday?â
He snapped.
One hand flew to your throat, forcing your back down flat to the counter as he bent over you, snarling into your ear, fucking you harder than everârough and punishing, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
âShut. Up,â he growled. âYou donât know what youâre saying.â
You moaned, drooling now, skin sticking to your chin. He was hitting something inside you over and over, and you were shakingâlegs trembling, walls fluttering around him.
âI do,â you breathed. âI know everything. I know you think about me more than her. I know your cockâs harder when Iâm around. I know you came in your pants the night you caught me in my roomââ
He groaned and then he broke.
His hips faltered, one last thrust burying him deep as his whole body seizedâcock twitching, thick heat spilling inside you in messy pulses. He came with a shuddering gasp, forehead pressed to your neck, his breath stuttering across your breasts.
And stillâyou clenched around him. Still trembling, still smiling.
He stayed there, cock softening inside you, the kitchen thick with the scent of sex and sweat and sin. The baby monitor crackled faintly on the counter.
When he collapsed onto youâhis chest was heavy on your body, forehead damp where it pressed into your collarbone. His arms wrapped around your waist, trembling slightly, knuckles white from how hard heâd been gripping the counter just moments before.
You could feel him shudder with every breath. Silent. Shaking. Wrecked.
You turned your head slightly, eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled through a dreamy, satisfied sigh.
Heâd finally broken.
And it had been so, so beautiful.
You threaded your fingers through his hairâslow and gentle, like you were soothing a feverish child. You stroked the damp strands carefully, tenderly. His breathing was shallow. Disoriented. Like he didnât know where he was anymore. Or who he was.
âShhh,â you whispered. âYou did so good for me, James.â
No answer. Just his breath ghosting over your skin. Hot. Human. Still inside you. Still twitching.
You shifted your hips slightlyâjust a tiny, intentional grindâand he groaned softly, like he couldnât take it. Like it hurt and healed him at the same time.
Your walls fluttered around him again. Slow. Lazy. Wet and warm. You kept moving.
A slow rock, barely noticeable to anyone who wasnât being milked for every last drop of cum. You clenched, then relaxed, clenching again like your pussy was thanking him.
You smiled to yourself.
He made a sound behind you. Broken. Hoarse.
âI⊠I canâtââ His voice cracked. âI canât stop.â
And there it was. The confession. The prayer.
You turned your head just enough to kiss his cheek. Delicate. Final. Your voice was soft enough to damn him.
âYou donât have to.â
He let out a strangled breathâand you felt it. The twitch. The way his cock started to harden inside you again, like his body belonged to yours now.
Like something sacred had been corrupted, and he was already aching to do it again.
You laughed. Quietly. Innocently.
Your hand cupped the back of his neck, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and you pulled him tighter against you.
âIâll help you,â you whispered. âEvery time. Every night.â
He didnât answer. He just stayed buried in you. Letting himself get hard again. Letting it happen.
You knew he was ashamed of what he did.
You saw it in the way his eyes wouldnât meet yours in the mornings, the way he kissed his wifeâs cheek with trembling lips and unsteady hands. The way he held his daughter a little tighter, like she might disappear too.
You knew he was mourning something. Heâd broken every vow that ever mattered.
To his wife. To God. To the man he once thought he was.
Because he used to be a good man. The kind who stood up straight and shook hands. The kind who tucked his daughter in every night and kissed his wifeâs cheek with nothing but loyalty in his chest. The kind who wouldâve slammed the door in your face the second you smiled too sweetly or reached for something that wasnât yours.
But you changed that. You took that.
Not a person. Not a loss. But himself.
That man had vanished the second he stepped between your thighs. The moment your cunt clenched around him, wet and wanting, and he heard himself moan like heâd been starving for yearsâ
That man died.
And the one left behind? He kept coming back. But when he did, he didnât speak the first few times.
Not beyond gritted teeth and filthy words spat into your mouth, not beyond the hoarse way he groaned your name when he came so deep inside you that you felt it for hours. He didnât ask questions, didnât make promises, didnât beg forgiveness.
He just kept fucking you.
Like it was a need. A curse. A habit so deeply embedded in his skin that he didnât know how to exist without it anymore.
Youâd feel him in the morningâstanding behind you while you washed a bottle, still in your nightgown. His hand curling around your hip. His cock pressing into your ass. And then youâd be bent over the counter again, your cheek to the marble, his hand in your hair, fucking you full while the baby slept upstairs.
He liked fucking you where it started. Said you looked best bent over the counter. Said the sound of your slick dripping on the tile made him lose his mind.
Sometimes it was the living roomâyou in one of your cardigans, curled up with a book, pretending not to notice him staring. Until he stalked across the room, took the book from your hands, and dragged you down onto the rug to use you.
Other times it was the laundry room. You were folding Beccaâs clothes, sweet and humming, when he walked in and wordlessly lifted you onto the dryer, pushing your panties aside, fucking into you so fast and filthy that the machine rocked beneath your thighs. He kept a hand over your mouth, whispering âBe quiet, baby. Be good. Be good.â You came twice before the cycle finished.
And eventuallyâŠ
His bed.
Their marital bed.
That was the night Sharon left town for a conference.
You wore nothing but one of his shirts. Youâd slipped into their room like you belonged there, curled into the sheets like you wanted to be caught.
He didnât even turn the light on. He just climbed over you and slid into your body like he was home.
He didnât say a word as he fucked you into the mattress he used to share with his wife. Didnât blink when you moaned his name into her pillow. Didnât flinch when you said, soft as a prayer, âWas I better than her again tonight?â
He never answered.
But you always knew the truth.
Because no matter how ashamed he was⊠No matter how much he tried to hold onto the man he once wasâŠ
He always came back to you. Came in you.
Again and again and again.
It happened one nightâjust like you'd always known it would.
He left her.
Not for good. Not officially. Not in the way that would cause gossip or divorce papers or screaming matches downstairs. No.
But in the quiet, in the darkâhe left her.
The mattress shifted sometime after midnight, and she didnât stir. Didnât notice the way his body slipped from beside hers. Didn't notice how he stood at the door, hand on the frame, breath caught in his throat like he already knew where he was going.
He padded down the hallway barefoot. Past the nursery. Past the room with the door always slightly ajar.
And straight to you.
You didnât say a word when the knob turned. You didnât need to. You were already awake. You always were when he came to you like this.
You just sat up slowly, your nightgown slipping off one shoulder, the sheet pooling in your lap, eyes sleepy-soft like a woman who was used to being visited. Used.
He didnât speak. He just came to you, and you opened your arms.
He fucked you slow that night. Not like the others. Not like the countertop or the dryer or the nursery floor.
This wasnât need. This was seeking.
He moved inside you like he didnât want to finishâhips grinding, cock heavy and thick inside your soaked cunt as you held him close, your hands in his hair, your thighs around his waist.
And when he started to shakeâwhen his voice broke against your throat and he buried his face between your breastsâyou didnât tease.
You just stroked his back. Whispered sweet nothings into his ear like lullabies.
Like comfort. The kind he never got from her.
âYouâre okay,â you whispered. âYouâre safe now.â
You felt him tremble. You felt his cock throb inside you. You felt every inch of him that he tried to pretend didnât need this.
Because you gave him something Sharon never did. Warmth. Softness. Devotion. Greedy devotion, yesâbut real all the same. And in return, he gave you everything. His weight. His breath. His brokenness. His loveâeven if he still couldnât call it that.
Because he told himself it wasnât love.
Even as he stayed the night. Even as he kissed your shoulder when he thought you were asleep. Even as he whispered your name like it meant something.
He clung to the lie. That this was just sex. Just release. Just weakness.
But you knew better. You knew it in the way he held you after. Head against your chest like he wanted to disappear inside you. Arms around your waist like he never wanted to leave.
You knew he loved you.
He had loved Sharon onceâbut never like this. Never with his soul in his throat. Never with tears in his eyes.
He could go back to that bed every night. But this was the only place he ever truly slept.
You liked watching him sleep. Not in that way that meant curiosity. Or affection. Not the kind of watching a wife might do in passing, noting the twitch of his brow or the slow rise of his chest.
No.
You watched him like you were planning.
His mouth slack. His arm draped over your body. His wedding ring still catching the faint silver of the moonlight from the window.
So vulnerable. So trusting. So⊠yours.
Youâd fucked him to sleep. Whispered sweet things while he came inside you, soft and trembling. Heâd pressed his face into your neck and moaned your name like a confession.
Now you imagined how you'd kill him.
Maybe it would be slow. A blade. Right between the ribs, angled upward into the heart. Heâd wake with your name on his lips, and youâd kiss his forehead while he bled into your hands.
Or maybe it would be soft. Hands around his throat. A gentle press. No struggle. Just your eyes on his as his body relaxed into the truth of it. Into you.
Or quieter still. A pillow, held gently over his face, your body straddling his while you grind down against his cock one last time. He wouldnât even cry out. Heâd just give in.
Because it wouldnât be murder.
It would be love.
You werenât taking anything from him. You were giving him forever.
No more sneaking out of his wifeâs bed. No more pretending he didnât need you. No more guilt. No more shame. No more leaving you behind.
Once he was dead, heâd stay. Heâd haunt the nursery with you. Heâd fuck you against the walls for eternity. Heâd hold your undead-body in his arms when the wind howled and the pipes screamed and the new tenants cried that they couldnât sleep.
You and him. Together. Always.
That wasnât a curse. It was the purest kind of devotion. The ultimate act of love.
And when he looked at youâjust before the final breath, just before the lights dimmed in those beautiful, broken eyesâheâd understand.
Bucky stirred a little in his sleepâtightened his arm around you, nuzzled his face into your chest like a child. You smiled.
Not tonight. But soon.
And when the time came, youâd do it slow. Youâd do it right.
Youâd bind his soul to the house the same way yours had been bound. Tie him to you with blood and lust and finality.
And heâd never leave you again. Because he couldnât. Because he wouldnât want to.
a/n | he still doesnât know sheâs dead. thatâs the best part. buckyâs gone full âi fucked the nanny and now I canât stopâ mode. youâre gone. heâs gone. weâre all going to hell. i love Sharon Carter. i swear. iâm just using her as narrative seasoning for ghost smut. she did nothing wrong except marry a man haunted by the sexiest nanny alive. comment your favorite depraved moment below.
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