#softdom!pedro

synopsis

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven {a}

seven {b}

eight

nine

ten (smutty)

eleven (smutty)

twelve

thirteen

*number of chapters undetermined

"Maisy," he coos softly.

I lamely feign waking up, and open my eyes to see him perched on the edge of the bed, gazing down at me.

"Hey," his voice is all morning rasp, deep and scratchy. I rub my feet together under the sheets.

He flashes a brilliant smile and I know today's going to be a great day. "I gotta head out soon. I'm gonna wake Oliver. Can you be downstairs in like tenish?"

I tug the duvet under my chin, "Mhm."

He nods and his eyes take me in languidly. "Are you...feeling okay?"

My cheeks flush at his solicitous inquiry. "Yes, a little sore... but yes."

"Good."

He opens his mouth to say something else but never does.

He stands and jabs a thumb in the general direction of his son's nursery. "I'll wake him now."

The day ensues casually. I spend the forenoon tidying. There are so many things Pedro needs help with around the house and I know he didn't hire me as a cleaning lady, but I don't want to ignore them. Even though he's for sure going to be annoyed I pick up the slack. I vacuum the entire house, mop the kitchen and do a load of laundry during which process I may or may not give one of his used T-shirts a deep inhale.

Following lunch, I decide to take Oliver out for a stimulating walk and get ourselves ice cream. Post-walk, he's too cute and clingy and I'm too overcome with parental greediness so we crash on the couch.

×××

Pedro

I get home loaded down with bags of groceries for our Mexican-themed dinner and right as I step through the door, I notice how clean and tidy the space is. Across the hall, I hear the tumble dryer going, so she must’ve done the laundry, and all of Oliver’s toys that were scattered across every corner of the house just this morning have been put away.

She’s helping out wherever she can even though it’s not her responsibility.

I remember staunchly why I need to stop having fantasies about my son’s nanny.

She is the first good one I’ve ever had, and I’d be damned if I messed it up because my cock seems to react every time she does something nice for me or Oliver.

Okay, so maybe I am kidding myself with that. It isn’t just when she treats Oliver like her own, or when she does something around the house that she really doesn’t have to, or when she makes my life easier by doing what — in her words — is the bare minimum of a babysitter.

It is that she is otherworldy gorgeous.

Every small, ridiculous thing about her turns me on.

I need a cold, hard reality slap.

I need to stop fantasizing about my nanny.

No matter the strenuous jump-roping session I did after post-training that left me gasping for air and wincing against my ribs, the pain didn’t last.

As soon as I was on my way home, all my thoughts drifted to Maisy.

And at my core, a voice is telling me no amount of masturbation could help.

Which is a real fucking problem.

I shake the thoughts from my head, doing my damndest not to think too hard about her as I kick off my shoes and move further into the house, scooping out the rooms in hopes of finding my son or his unfairly beautiful nanny with a voice I can't get out of my head as it mewls my name.

I drop off the groceries in the kitchen and turn into the living room. At first, it appears empty but as I look over the backboard of the couch, Masiy cuddling my boy comes into view.

My heart thuds out of sync for many beats. I knead at the spot.

Rick made me do accessory work on my pectorals, that must be the reason for the soreness, I reason.

Roused by my ogling, Maisy stirs then blinks a few times as her vision clears and she reaclimates. When she sees me, a slow smile spreads across her plush, naturally cherry lips.

They are kissable lips, a voice says in my head.

I shoo it away. Inappropriate.

Instead, I focus on my boy. "Did you have a great nap, Buddy?" I ask, leaning over the couch and tickling Oliver’s belly.

Maisy sits up, propping my son on his knees.

My boy is all bed-head and dried drool from his nap. "Daddy," he mumbles, reaching for me.

I pick him up, and his little arms instantly go around my neck. My heart thuds with affection, and I cover his cheeks with kisses and he wiggles in my grasp, giggling.

"Sorry. I know I shouldn't have let him nap on the couch with me. But he was extra cuddly today and fell asleep on me while we watched a video of vegetables dancing and—," Maisy rambles.

The corners of my mouth quirks up in a small but fond smile. "It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself," I tell her reassuringly. "I trust your judgment with him."

She nods, her eyes flitting around me, her fingers fidgeting with her droplet necklace.

"I gotta take a quick shower, but we can get started on dinner after?"

"Sound great," she agrees, standing.

I let Oliver down. "I'll be right there with you."

She saunters into the kitchen, my son crawling after her.

He's still not quite walking but he can make a couple of steps on his own before losing balance. I try not to sweat over his slow but steady progress. He'll get there.

After a cold shower in the downstairs bathroom – and against my better judgement –, I wrap a towel around my waist and spy on the two of them for an idle moment.

Oliver sits on her hip as Maisy puts away the groceries. She announces each item she stores away, teaching him the names of vegetables and fruits. I should go back to my room and put some clothes on, but I just want to be around them.

Eventually though, a few more self-indulgent moments later I begrudgingly tear my eyes away from them and get dressed.

I put on some worn jeans and tug a crumpled white t-shirt on while descending the stairs. My bare feet make soft padding sounds as I walk into the kitchen. "Ready, chef?" I ask jokingly.

Maisy puts me right to work. I'm on prep duty, peeling, chopping, dicing anything she puts right in front of me. It's all awfully domestic. Oliver perches in his high chair, supervising us as he devours his less gourmet dinner of mashed potatoes and hard-boiled egg. There's music playing and Maisy sways her hips as she blows on the ladle and holds it out to me to taste.

"Careful, it's hot," she warns, gauging my reaction as I let the sauce dissolve on my tongue. "More salt? Five more minutes?"

"Five more minutes. Seasoning is spot on."

I’m wiping Oliver’s face clean with a damp cloth when I hear a hiss and a quiet Fuck coming from Maisy.

My eyes cut to her as she tosses the knife into the sink, and lifts a finger to her mouth.

"You okay there?" I ask, and I can hear the alarm in my voice. I'm not slick at all.

"I’m fine, just cut myself." She sounds fine but there’s a pleading ring to her voice—which I might make up in my head, but I don’t care. I want to take care of her.

Sitting Oliver on my forearm, I reach for her wrist, rotating her hand to inspect the damage, which is limited.

"Really, I’m fine," she says, avoiding my gaze as she pulls her wrist out of my hold and brings her finger back up to her mouth to stem the light trickle of blood.

I grab the makeshift first-aid kit I store under the sink and rifle through the contents, looking for the correct Band-Aid size.

“Let me,” I coax.

She lets out a heavy sigh, "Okay."

"Good girl," the title slips before I could stop myself. If she catches the insinuation, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

My hand wraps around her wrist again, guiding her finger from her mouth.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” I say, assessing the inconsequential cut.

“That’s what I told you,” she replies. I feel her intense, searching gaze on my face as I pull the Band-Aid from its wrapper, and place it with meticulous care.

"Maisy hurt?" Oliver pouts.

She laughs lightly, petting his head with her uninjured hand. "It’s just a little cut. I’m okay, it doesn’t even hurt," she assures my son.  

I work against the giddy smile that’s tugging on my lips.

I wrap the sticky ends together and delicately kiss the area where her cut is. “There.”

She shudders at the contact. “Thank you,” she whispers and turns away to resume work.

Before we sit down to eat, I tuck Oliver in for the night. When I return, a rosy-cheeked Maisy and a margarita is waiting on me. Even without the alcohol in my system, I feel warm and uninhibited.

Dinner is languid. We discuss how we prefer our hard-boiled eggs. We express our fears of growing old. We recall our first day as high schoolers, the number of our locker and the code combination.

Slightly tipsy, we get up to dance. Maisy is bashful at first but reassured by my awkward dance moves, lets herself loose. We do some consensual rubbing and grinding, the air between us charged. I'm nosing at her neck as we rock side to side, her back to my front, when George Michel's Father Figure comes on shuffle. It's a song I haven't heard in a while, and the lyrics sober me.

I break into a nervous sweat. We separate, I grab my phone and skip the song.

"You good?" she asks, her skin glistening.

"Yeah, yeah. It's just—, it's getting late and I have a session early tomorrow."

"Yeah, of course, you're right," she mumbles, but her face falls in disappointment, making me feel like the worst possible human.

I stack and carry our plates to the sink. I grip onto the edge of the kitchen counter and close my eyes. I feel her lingering presence. I blow out the air in my lungs, open my eyes and face her.

She's leaning against the counter, mirroring me, one of her hands toying with the hem of her sundress. "Thank you for tonight. I had fun."

A smile breaks across my face. "I enjoyed myself too," I say quietly.

Her eyes sparkle at my words and she perks up. She licks her plump lips, her throat bobbing with a swallow. I trace the movement.

"I—, I really want to kiss you right now," she divulges.

Heat rushes down, and my dick hardens with desire in my jeans.

"Can I kiss you?"

When she is this polite, who am I to resist the temptation?

It's like I'm a hormonal teenage boy. Lust overrides my consciousness. But I can't even pretend I'm not in way over my head. So, I chose to ignore it all and just live in whatever moment is right in front of me. Apparently, that is the opportunity to be kissed by Maisy.

Surging forward, I bend to meet her waiting mouth in an urgent kiss.

She melts into the kiss after a lag of surprise, her hands floating up to settle on either side of my jaw. Her touch is still tentative, even after the multiple orgasms I've given her, she's still too self-conscious to fully let her desires control her.

There's a different energy to her when it comes to intimacy. In normal day-to-day situations, she's opinionated, sure of herself and her values, but in bedroom-type situations, she's timid, coy.

I find it extremely sweet.

I know it's partly because of her inexperience but I think she likes to hand over the control. And I'm okay bearing the responsibilities.

I don't care to be particularly composed as I dole out my affection, the twisting of our tongues messy and clumsy with how badly I want to put my mouth all over her. I comb my fingers through her silky hair as her tongue meets mine. My hands roam down her sides, then loop around her waist to press her back into the counter.

Trailing my mouth down, I smear my kisses over the curve of her chin, the line of her jaw, then all the way down the column of her throat. She shivers, her hands pushing up into my hair.

I bend at the knees slightly, my palms cupping the backs of her thighs. "Hop," I murmur and I hoist her onto the kitchen island. Our lips disconnect for just a split second before she's chasing after me, grasping me by the nape of my neck.

I pry myself between her legs, her dress riding up but still concealing her as my hips slot between her plush thighs.

The way she kisses is needy, careless, unfettered. It turns me even more feral.

One of my hands moves up to cup the side of her neck, the other holds her by the ribcage. She wraps her legs around my middle, and her ankles cross, making the bulge in my jeans press against the heat of her. We both gasp at the contact.

I pull kiss after kiss from her until we're breathless and clamouring.

When she breaks for air, I reach behind to untangle her ankles. She mewls in protest but I don't backtrack. I'm on a mission to finally lick into her.

Giving her a placating kiss, I drop to my knees in front of her, feeling my pulse thrumming as I gaze up at her from this new position. Her hair is frizzy from my fingers running through it, and her chest heaves as she catches her breath through kiss-swollen lips.

She tugs at my hair, looking at me questioningly, but I don't make any move to get up, I stay right where I am. "Don't worry, flower, I'll take care of you."

My hands smooth over the length of her thighs, the fabric of her dress catching on my wrists as it pools around her hips. I grip her by the hips and pull her towards me so that she sits on the edge of the countertop, and hike her legs over my shoulders.

She yelps, choking on air.

In this position, I'm face to face with her heat, covered by a pair of blush pink thongs. There's a big wet patch on the gusset. She's completely soaked through. My erection twitches painfully in my pants, but I show some restraint.

Planting my mouth in a suctioning kiss on the flesh of her inner thigh, I start a new expedition.

As I pluck my teeth against the soft skin goosebumps raise on her skin, and she cries out my name."Pedro, w-we can take this to my bedroom, an—" she rushes, breathless.

I shake my head before she can finish. "Quit it," I bark lowly, her scent drugging me. "We're going to stay right here, sweetheart."

I drag my lips over her thighs, never fully parting from the flesh before I press another languid kiss to her skin.

"Oh God, oh God," she whimpers between gasps.

The closer I get to the apex of her thighs, the more unreal her scent is. I want to bury myself in her.

So I do.

I nose at where her clit is nestled away out of my sight, and she lets out the most angelic cry.

My fingertips tease the waistband of her underwear. "How was that? Did you like it when I nudged your aching little clit, baby girl?" I probe, peering up at her. Her cheeks are red, and her brows glisten with sweat.

"Mhump," she purrs. "Do it again, please?"

I lower my head and inhale deeply, her intoxicating smell filling my lungs. In response, she crumbles; she falls back onto her forearm.

I hook my thumbs under the string on her hips. "I gotta taste you. Been thinking about it all week, pretty girl." I tell her, trying to tame the keen edge in my voice. "Will you let me?"

A look of hesitation flashes behind her eyes, and her legs tremble (and not in the uncontrollable, post-coital way I would prefer, but in a nervous tick). Noting her uneasy, I reign in my desperation.

"You're nervous," I state.

She chews on her bottom lip. "I am," she says meekly.

I drop back onto my heels, and run my hands up and down the length of her thighs comfortingly before pressing a tender kiss onto each of her kneecaps. "If you want to stop or this is something you're not ready for, tell me. But you don't have to be nervous with me."

"Yes, I know," she speaks in a hushed tone, pouting. "I think what's making me nervous is that I'd never let a man touch me down there before you, let alone put his mouth on me so intimately."

"I'm aware of that," I say, my thumbs kneading at her.

"When you kissed me there—, I–I was overpowered with a rush of butterflies. I didn't know how to behave myself, it scared me."

"But they were a good kind of butterflies, yes?" She nods. "Well, you can always just tug on my hair. If anything that lets me know you're enjoying what I'm doing. How about you do that when you feel those butterflies?" I offer, sponging kisses to her kneecap.

She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay," she breathes softly.

"Now will you let me put my mouth on you?"

The slow but certain nod she gives is the permission I need before I'm finally shucking her underwear down her legs and unceremoniously stuffing them in my back pocket. A blissful sigh leaves me as I take in the glistening folds of the most beautiful cunt I've ever seen.

"Jesus, Maisy," I choke out in admiration. "How are you real? You're fucking stunning." There's a patch of downy hair above the cleft. Dark pinkish-purple folds gleam with her arousal. "God, you're fucking perfect."

"Thank you," she says softly.

Settling as comfortably as I can on my knees, I close that small, teasing distance, and plant my lips directly onto her clit. Her hips buck.

Another testing kiss and she stops breathing, her legs quaking around my head. I tsk. "Nah-ah. You need to spread your legs wider, sweetheart." I rasp and after a shuddering sigh, she obliges, parting those thick thighs even wider to give me access to the dark, wet heart of her.

I reward her with a long, slow swipe of my tongue across her leaking slit.

"Ohmygod," she slurs, thrusting her hips forward to chase after the sensation.

My lips lift in an impish smirk. She makes a keening noise, and the sound unlocks a deep well of joy inside me I'd never known existed.

Peering up at her, I push another budding kiss to her clit, this time watching the look on her face. Her eyes attempt to close, lashes kissing her cheekbones, with her mouth dropping into a small gape, and a pinch appearing between her brows.

After planting a slew of kisses on her clit, feeling her pulse jump against him, I slide my arms around to the backs of her thighs. My palms cuff the soft skin, fingertips denting into the gentle curve as I push her towards my face, angling her hips just so.

The scent of her lures me in and I scarcely hear her say my name as I move forward. I bend my head and feast from her. My tongue dips into the heart of her, tasting the wet as it oozes from within her, and my lips seal around her clit to suck, suck, suck until her legs tremble and she has to grip the edge of the countertop to cope.

I give her no mercy, and she doesn't ask me for any. She surrenders to my savage intentions so sweetly, it lights me on fire.

Clutching the dense swell of her ass in my hands, I haul her closer to my mouth.

The flat of my tongue slides through her slit over and over, collecting her wetness and revelling in the heady taste that was her before swallowing. I can feel her toes curl behind my back, her heels pressing into my spine to urge me into giving more. I smile around my ministrations as I zigzag my tongue over her pussy before turning my focus back on her clit.

Kissing at the bud, I speak as best I can without lifting my mouth from her.

"Y'taste so good, flower."

Her hands find my head, the tips of her fingers winding through my hair. "You—you're incredible. This—oh, God—is incredible."

Spurred on by her stuttered praise, I surge forward, replacing my lips with my tongue now laving over her clit. It's swollen between my lips as I give placating sucks to the bud, drawing the softest mewls from Maisy.

Diving down from her clit, I follow the split of her spread folds until I'm tonguing at her opening. Her wetness has spread to the inside of her thighs, my cheeks, and now the tip of my nose as I wag the flat of my tongue over her arousal-coated folds.

I jut my chin against her and thrust my tongue straight inside her pussy. She moans up to the ceiling. Her fluttering walls clench around me, welcoming me in.

I wriggle my tongue inside her, tracing along the ridges and curves. Her hands in my hair come alive then, tugging at the roots. Drilling my tongue inside her, I draw her higher and higher until her whimpers and gasps are obscenely lewd.

My cheeks are squished by her warm thighs, chin soaked in her slick and nose mushed against her clit.

I could do this all night, but I have a feeling Maisy's expiration is coming soon.

The telltale sign comes in the scrunch of her nose and her fluttering eyes.

"Gonna cum for me, baby girl?" I mouth against her clit, feeling her muscles bunch at the feeling of my voice vibrating around her.

A small whine crawls its way out of her throat as she nods, her mouth in nothing more than a gape.

"Want you to cum on my face," I croon, "Let me have it, sweetheart."

All it takes is a lingering suck of her clit before she's crumbling above me. My name leaves her mouth as if in prayer. Her back arches from the counter, pushing her hips that much closer to my face. Twitching with each pulsation that grips her, she holds me trapped against her, tossing her head in the throes of ecstasy.

I don't stop, feeling her clit pulsing between my lips. A cry dies in her throat when I move one hand from her ass to between her thighs to join my tongue inside her.

I drive a finger inside her snug cunt while sucking her clit between my lips. Her hands in my hair are shocked into a tight, unwavering grip, and heels dig into my back.

"Again," I demand against the inside of her thigh before curling another finger into that tight heat and flicking her swollen, throbbing clit with my tongue. "Give me one more."

She cries out then, louder and louder.

This time, when she orgasms, I fuck her even harder through it, fingers pressing into the front wall of her pussy, punishing a soft spot that makes her wail and ride my face without one iota of shame.

And if I don't I almost cream myself.

I carry her away for several long minutes, lapping her slower and slower until she grows too sensitive.

When she climbs down from her high, I'm still kissing her sloppy, swollen folds.

"Too much, too much," she whimpers, pushing my face away from her.

Drawing away, I look up at her. A slow, private smile spreads across her face. My heart gives a warm thump. Seeing her unwound for me...

Hell. I could easily get used to this. But it was only sex... right? Two consenting adults enjoying each other's bodies.

Easing her thighs from my shoulder, I move up her body to kiss those sweet lips. "You did good, so good, baby girl."

I fix her dress despite there being no reason to hide after what we just did, smoothing the fabric over her hips in a grounding touch. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I start her towards her bedroom.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

With her eyes hooded and movements lethargic, I guide her upstairs. Flicking on the light in her room, I deposite her on the edge of her bed. I watch with an affectionate smile as she flops back into the mattress, arms falling above her head as she stretches out.

I leave her to her quiet soothing and step into her bathroom.

Just as I thought, my cock is still impossibly hard in my pants, hiding a drenched spot on the front of my briefs where I've been leaking blurts of precum while tasting the very same girl who nannies my son and is the daughter of my coach.

I adjust myself and rid of the thought.

I find a small cloth under the sink cabinet, wet it and walk back to her. Her eyes open lazily, and her cherry lips slit into a small, intimate smile. Her feet dangle from the edge of the bed, and I kneel.

"Is it alright if I push up your dress again, sweetheart?" I ask, voice a low croon in the quiet of her bedroom. "Just gonna clean you."

"Okay," she mumbles, lifting her hips some as I push up the hem.

She wordlessly spreads her thighs and I make quick work of wiping up her arousal that dripped to the inside of her thighs. When I touch her clit, hoping it would be so fast she wouldn't notice, I earn a small hiss, her legs recoiling to close around my hand.

"Too much," she reminds me, a pout evident in her voice.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I murmur, compounding my words with a kiss to the cuff of her knee.

A strong urge to take proper care of her grips me. I do the whole boyfriend experience; I get her a clean pair of underwear—a quick rummage around her underwear drawer reveals a lacy black thong that I make her wear—, and her sleep shirt from under her pillow, even going as far as draping the duvet over her and pressing a kiss into her hairline, which is beyond overkill.

I close the door behind me and the realization clangs through me; I'm catching feelings.

Maisy

I wake in the middle of the night, totally placated.

I get up to use the bathroom, and as I sit on the toilet, flashes of Pedro between my thighs sizzle across my mind.

My cheeks and neck flame up at the memory of what he'd done.

There was no hesitancy, no politeness in the way he kissed, licked, sucked. I felt totally out of control, and what's more, I wanted to be out of control.

And when he added his fingers... my mind felt like it went straight through a shredder and into a kaleidoscope.

When I came two consecutive times, I was left floating, drifting in a current of Pedro. He was still licking me, except more slowly, as if with no purpose but to savour me.

And then he rose over me, and kissed me, unconcerned with where his mouth had been just seconds earlier. I dimly wondered in that moment if I should be put off by that, but I was still violently twitching with pleasure, contracting with aftershocks that I couldn't make myself care.

He then proceeded to support me up the stairs, took care of my mess and dressed me for bed. I was half-asleep when he kissed my hairline, and I remember sinking into a sense of security that my brain linked to Pedro.

Pedro is big into aftercare.; without fail, he always makes sure I'm comfortable after we've been intimate, but last night felt significant, especially since he went down on me for the first time and I was in such a woundable state. He might consider aftercare as part of our arrangement, but thinking about it, I get a high emotional charge.

I know that he isn't playing any mind games on me because he's equally considerate and kind to me when we aren't making out, but still, I can't help but wonder how he would treat me if I were his—his girl, for real.

At the thought of there being an us, an emergency alarm goes off in my brain. I'm getting way ahead of myself. I'm starting to think our deal could turn into something more which is stupid and foolish and just all around messy what with our age gap and his close relationship to my dad.

I flush, and wash my hands.

Staring into my reflection, my inner voice asks, I won't be able to be remotely normal about Pedro and our arrangement going forward, will I?

"No, I definitely won’t, " I speak aloud.

He's been fighting a sickness over the past few days, and his temperature hasn't gone down.

He was fussy and uncomfortable all morning. His throat is swollen and his nose has been running non-stop. I tried everything to alleviate some of his discomfort; shushing him, giving him a lukewarm bath, offering plenty of fluids, using the air humidifier, all to no avail. By midday, I was so worried I called Pedro.

He was panting when he picked up. "Yes?" he spoke into the receiver, his tone curt.

We've both gone three nights without getting a full night of sleep, taking turns taking care of Oliver.

And now I was disrupting his workouts because I couldn't do my job of caring for his son.

"I think I should take Oliver to the doctor's," I said.

We agreed to meet at the hospital and hang up.

Now in the hospital's pediatrics ward, I sign Oliver in, handing the nurse a hardcopy of the authorization form that allows me to be present during Oliver's treatment, which Pedro signed in advance should a case like this arise.

Oliver and I take a seat on one of the teal chairs that faces a television that plays cartoons. I bounce him a little in hopes of soothing him.

I'm trying to comfort him, but from what I've learned over the last few days, the only person he wants when he doesn't feel well is his dad.

"You're okay, Oliver. Shh." I run a hand over his back before lightly pressing his head into my shoulder, hoping it'll force him to rest.

It doesn't. He wails his little lungs, his cry deafening next to my ear.

"Dadda," he sobs, his innocent eyes rimmed in red as he frantically looks around the busy waiting room. "I want Dadda!"

"I know. I know. He'll be here soon."

He doesn't stop, somehow finding the lung capacity to scream even louder.

I can almost feel all the other moms and dads' eyes on me, judging me.

I know how to entertain Oliver, how to figure out what he needs, whether that's food, sleep, or a diaper change. But I have no idea how to help him when he's this sick or upset.

I stand and start pacing with Oliver in my arms. The bouncing doesn't seem to settle him as he wails louder. "I know, Bug. I'm sorry. A doctor will see us soon and you'll be better."

What feels like hours but is probably just minutes, a nurse approaches us. "A doctor will see Oliver now."

I grab Oliver's diaper bag and follow the nurse.

We're rounding a corner when a deep voice calls my name. "Maisy! Wait!"

I turn to see Pedro rushing toward us, wearing his gym clothes. "Hey, hi," he says when he reaches us. "Sorry I took so long. I got here as fast as I could."

Pedro strokes his son's cheek with the back of his fingers. The boy's wail softens to a sniffling cry and he melts into my arms now that his dad is here.

Pedro doesn't take Oliver from me as we're escorted to an exam room, but hovers over the two of us protectively, a warm hand resting on my lower back as I carry his son.

I try not to pay much attention to the fact that I am too much more at ease now that Perdo is near.

Pedro

Thankfully Oliver didn't need to be kept in for overnight observation. After a doctor examined him, he got a round of fluids via an IV drip and was prescribed some medication to help lower his fever.

The whole time, Maisy was fidgeting with her necklace as she looked on. She didn't stray from my son's bedside while he got his treatment, letting him clutch onto her pointer finger.

By the time we get to the front door of my brownstone, the baby Tylenol has finally kicked in and Oliver is contently laying on my shoulder.

We order in, neither Maisy or I in the mood to cook dinner, and we cuddle up on my couch, a sitcom playing in the background.

It's still a bit early for Oliver's bedtime so he hangs out with us, walking lapses of the coffee table but not daring to let go of the edge as he balances himself.

He allows us to scarf down our Indian takeaway in peace before the bedtime fussiness gets the best of him.

I pick him up, cradling his head as I bop around the living room. Maisy offers a sympathetic smile as she stands to gather our empty plates.

Oliver works himself into a burbling mess, and as much as it pains me, I'm not who he wants right now.

My son is making grabby hands at the pretty girl teetering on her feet under the archway leading into the living room.

"What's that, Buddy?"

He points at Maisy again. "Mmm."

"Are you trying to say Maisy?" My chest wells with emotion.

"Mmm."

"Yeah, that's Maisy over there."

My gaze meets with Maisy's and a pout stretches her naturally raspberry-pink lips.

"Want me to try?" she offers softly.

I nod, wordlessly handing over my son.

"Come here." She takes Oliver from me, situating his head on her shoulder. "You're okay," she croons. "You're all right, Bug. I've got you."

I sink with relief watching Maisy comfort my son. She supports Oliver's head and starts to sway around the house as she tries to settle him.

The softest singing voice echoes throughout the space as she sings into Oliver's ear. She soothes him tirelessly, placing soft kisses on his head between lyrics and within a minute or two my boy is fully content, snuggled into the crook of Maisy's neck.

She continues singing lullabies as she carries Oliver up to his nursery. I trail after them, my chest swelling with a foreign tenderness.

I make myself useful and close the blinds and turn on the air humidifier while she rocks my son to sleep.

In a matter of minutes, he dozes off. She tucks him in, gently placing his current favourite plushie by his head.

We stand there for a moment, peering down into my son's crib as his chest rises and falls with even breaths.

She then turns to me with a sweet little smile and leans her head on my shoulder.

I don't find it in me to reject her, to tell her that this—her head on my shoulder—is crossing a line.

I don't want to reject her.

But fuck does she have my whole belief system at war.

I close my eyes, blow the air in my lungs through my nose.

How have I gotten myself into this situation? Falling for an off-limits woman. Because that's exactly what I've done in the last two weeks, I've fallen, hard. I should've been more careful, spent less time with her, pushed away my fantasies. But I couldn't, even as I felt myself tumbling down this rabbit hole, I couldn't stop myself.

And what scares me the most is that I didn't even want to.

I open my eyes and gaze down at my son.

I think today was the day he realized that he has a support system outside of me. I know he did because I did so too.

Oliver loves her. It's evident in the way he looks at her, in the way he reaches for her when she's near. She brings him a sense of comfort he was missing, and she equally brings me the same knowing how well they get along.

Overwhelmed with gratitude for Maisy, I slide my hand into hers and jerk my head in the general direction of downstairs.

Maisy

Pedro leads me downstairs, into the kitchen.

When we get to the kitchen island, he lets go of me, rakes a hand through his lush curls, and leans against the counter.

I eye him curiously. He's slouching, clearly tired both physically and emotionally. The past few days have drained us.

He scratches his stubbled jaw. His movement draws my attention to the heart-shaped patch in his rakish beard. I wonder how ticklish his stubble would feel against my palm, on my stomach or on my inner thigh.

No, not going to go there, I scold myself.

I bite the inside of my cheek to bring myself back to reality.

We're remarkedly quiet, not a single word has been spoken between us since I lulled Oliver to sleep.

Hesitant and sheepish, characteristics that are so unlike him, Pedro moves closer just an inch. I wouldn't notice his subtle approach if I weren't acutely aware of his body heat.

His nearness fills me with warmth and comfort. I want to reach out and touch him to make myself believe he's actually here.

His hand is on the counter right next to me as he leans back on his palms, and tentatively, I cover it with my own.

He doesn't stop me. He uses his thumb to trap my fingers, softly stroking the supple skin between my thumb and pointer finger.

I don't dare to brave eye contact and instead drag my gaze across the dimly lit kitchen.

There are endless dishes in the sink that I remind myself to tackle tomorrow. Piles of laundry he needs to fold. Knowing him, he's going to try to get it all done on his one day off this week, but I'll pick up the slack when he's back in the ring tomorrow, and I'm sure he'll be annoyed that I helped. He's prideful like that, wanting to do it all on his own.

"I just wanted to say thank you." He breaks our silence. "For taking care of Oliver." He pauses, his voice softer. "We're lucky to have you."

A beaming smile slowly lifts the corners of my mouth. "Well, the feeling is mutual."

"I'm beyond grateful that you treat him with uttermost gentleness. I don't think you know just how much happiness you bring to him." He sighs, says above a whisper, "He appreciates you, and I do too. Tremendously. And I'm not sure I can repay you for the love you give to my boy."

My heart cracks at that, opening in a way I don't want it to. He's too good, too sweet, emotionally mature. Too goddamn hot for his own good.

He keeps stroking my hand.

We both follow his languid movement with our eyes, an electric frisson leaping from him to me each time he smoothes the pad of his thumb over my flesh.

My heart thumps, quick and sharp, at the way his dark eyes take me in, the way the corner of his mouth tips up in a private smile.

Our gazes lash together and I get the same drugging rush of excitement when I'm at a concert and the bassist starts to play the buildup to the bridge of the song.

Pedro's intense eyes pinion me to the spot. My blood pulsates in the tops of my ears.

As we stare into each other's eyes, the moment feels like a soap bubble, something that's bound to burst one way or another.

And then it does.

"I'm gonna kiss you," he tells me huskily, perhaps to acknowledge what we're doing or perhaps he's sensed I might need to be forewarned.

His mouth crashes down on mine then and I'm compliant, letting him take what he wants.

He cups my jaw with one warm hand, his other hand pulling me into his body by the gentle hold he has on my waist.

I still don't know what to do with myself when it comes to kissing so I simply grasp onto his impossibly broad shoulders, bracing myself.

He licks into me and I gasp, fisting his shirt.

"Taste so sweet," he groans, turning to kiss me the other way.

I'm disintegrating on the spot. This is all too much yet nowhere near enough. 

For a moment we break apart. To catch our breath, or maybe to end whatever this has turned into. But as soon as I find his bottomless eyes I'm hit with a revelation so earth-shattering, it spins me off my axis.

I don't want to end it. Whatever this is, I want more of it.

He must feel it too because our gaze lasts no longer than a second before our lips connect again and he's devouring me.

"Why am I unable to stop myself with you?" He murmurs the words against my lips, his voice strained. My heart is beating so hard that I get a little dizzy. "You are going to wreck my world, and I'm going to let you."

He closes back in for a hungry kiss, nibbling on my bottom lip before flinching. "What the fuck are we doing?" he asks raggedly, still holding me, his chocolate brown eyes filled with torment.

"I don't know," I say.

A low, frustrated sound dies in the back of his throat, and he stills, his mouth ghosting mine. "This is a bad idea,  Maisy,"  he says hoarsely, but he doesn't step back. "We can't be together."

"I know that," I say, choking on my words.

And I do. So why does hearing it feel like rubbing salt into an open wound?

"Maisy." His voice cracks, and I will not let him say it. I refuse. I will not let him say how we can't do this. How this is wrong. How he's wrong for me.

"Please. I'm okay with this," I whimper, unabashedly desperate, "I want you," I hiccup. "Please, Pedro, I want you so bad."

"We—I—, this is messy," he reasons, his forehead resting against mine. "I don't want Oliver to get hurt because I can't keep my dick in my pants." His eyes are pinched and his brows are knitted, he looks as if in agony.

"It doesn't have to be messy," I say.

He gives a low, scraping laugh, but he stays serious. "It already is," he says, "When you override all rational thought."

I swallow a thorny knot and blurt. "I—I have a proposition. I think I know how we can work."

He opens his mouth to interject but I go on. "We think of it as an arrangement. You teach me about bedroom stuff and I can be you're good time."

He's a man, and as a man, he can teach me a lot about men's pleasure, and we can get my awkward firsts out of the way. He'll be my springboard into dating, I rationalize.

He regards me expressionlessly as he grinds his molars. "So it's purely transactional?"

"Yes, if that's what you want too," I say, not letting my schoolgirl infatuation bleed through.

Now is not the time to tell him I want him to eat my soul. To take down my walls and build me up again.

I can fake it. I can pretend. I can deny my budding feelings for him. This can work.

"I want some rules put in place to make sure we are both clear about what this little arrangement is."

I nod eagerly, ready to agree to any of his terms. I know I'm being naively willing and accommodating but at the same time I want this, he is not forcing himself on me.

"No PDA unless we are hooking up," he begins. "And no sleepovers."

I nod again.

"And most importantly," he says, all serious. "There needs to be constant communication. It's either consensual or I'm not touching you."

"I understand," I say in a heartbeat.

A wry smile graces his plush and moustached lips before he turns solemn once again.

"I need to hear you say something for me. And I need you to be honest now," he says, his eyes boring into me. "Before we agree on any of this, I need you to tell me this is consensual. That you want this too. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt. I don't want you to ever feel like I'm grooming you. Or that I'm corrupting you or anything like that."

"You don't make me feel like that. This arrangement doesn't make me feel like that. I want this. I feel safe with you. I trust you," I divulge truthfully.

"And you're absolutely sure you're not weirded out by our age gap?"

Yes, we have a twelve-year age gap but I'm an adult too. It's not like I'm underaged. I can consent to our arrangement in my right conscience.

"I'm absolutely sure." I cement then say, "One more thing... my dad can never find out about this. It'd be way too awkward."

"Yes, that, no telling your dad."

All the things I told myself, all the reasons this is a bad idea, seem inconsequential. All that seems to matter is him and the bone-deep desire I have for this man. We can work. Sure, he's the dad whose kid I nanny, but only until I leave to go back to work. Yes, he works with my dad, but if we keep this between us, then my father will never have to know.

Pedro's nose moves against mine, causing a shiver to run through me. His hands mount my neck and then cradle my face.

I rest one of my hands on his abdomen, his muscles contracting under my touch, and nudge my nose against his. "Aren't you gonna kiss me now?" I tease but my shaky voice gives away my nerves.

Just because I want him, it doesn't mean I'm not nervous.

"You're endearing," he tells me with a low chuckle, then kisses me square on the mouth, hard, like a stamp, and walks me over to the couch. "First lesson: French kissing."

×××

Heavenly. Pedro's lap is one of the most heavenly places on earth, as it turns out.

He's warm and solid, like a giant teddy bear you can win at funfairs, and he doesn't seem to mind having me draped over him.

I'm straddling his hips on his couch and he's kissing me deliberately.

Our kisses are little more than pecks—his lips pressing against mine and his hand on my waist steady me. It's all sweetheart innocence yet something warm and liquid collects at the bottom of my belly.

The sensation is not unpleasant, but confusing and a bit scary.

"Still with me?" Pedro probes between kisses.

"Hmm," I squeak. If being okay means I've forgotten my name twice in the last few minutes, yeah, I'm perfect.

"Good," he rasps. One of his oversized hands travels the length of my side and settles on my ribcage, his thumb stroking me just under my bra.

The way he is kissing me now is different from the way he was kissing me in my bedroom that first time. He was reluctant, almost unwilling to kiss me, and now he is...insisting.

Maybe I'm being fanciful. What do I know about different types of kisses, anyway?

When his tongue slips between my lips, I go stock-still. His tongue is in my mouth. I can't stop myself from cringing.

It's far too personal and unhygienic.

"This okay?" I must have lingered too long inside my head, because he is looking at me with a concerned frown, his thumb sweeping back and forth on my hip bone. "You're tense." His voice is hoarse.

"It's just—, it's weird?" I mumble.

His eyes soften and he regards me with tenderness as he thinks up some sorcery to make me feel better. "Think of it like a caress," he proposes. "Do you want me to try it again?"

I swallow dryly. My stomach is in knots.

"Don't look so nervous, sweetheart," he chuckles lightly. "We don't have to if you don't want to. Not trying to pressure you into anything."

"I know," I tell him. His reassurance that I'm the one in charge settles me. "Okay. Let's give it a try."

"Alright," he murmurs softly and bends toward my mouth again.

I fist his shirt and brace myself.

Instead of pushing his tongue between my lips, he kisses me like he had before, sponging closed-mouthed kisses onto my mouth.

These I can do.

He's easing me into it, I realize, because he keeps kissing me in an unhurried procession. His tactic is working, some of my stress drains away, and I unclench.

The very tip of his tongue sneaks out and traces my lower lip then. I part my lips for him and he slides in for long enough to touch my own before retracting and kissing me.

Over and over again, he gives me a brief taste of salt and heat, and then retreats. He brushes at my lips with maddening strokes, dips inside for the merest second, before he withdraws.

I'm growing frustrated. The closed-mouth kisses I liked so much in the beginning are no longer enough.

He sucks on my bottom lip and laves the sensitized skin before taking my mouth again. I feel the still foreign wet heat of his tongue slips in, tasting me. I don't know quite what to do so I follow his lead, allowing him to continue his little ministrations while I try to get a small taste of him as well.

His arm moves under my shirt, circling my waist. His other hand keeps cupping my jaw, angling my head.

My hands tour his wide chest. I can make out every tendon of muscle flexing and contracting as he moves against me. I throw my arms around his neck then, and I have the strangest urge to plunge my fingers into his hair.

"You can touch me however you want," he rasps against my kiss-slicked lips, as if reading my mind.

God, I hope he can't.

He closes back in, deepening our kiss, and I glide my hands up into his chestnut brown curls, feeling the smooth strands fall through my fingers.

He twins his tongue with mine and we find a rhythm. His incredibly high stamina surpasses mine, and he has to stop kissing me every now and then to let me catch my breath.

"You need to learn how to breathe through your nose," he says, touching his mouth before returning his hands to my midsection.

"Okay," I croak, awkwardly smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt I've caused.

"God, you're adorable," he croons, his smile widening.

I blush, and feel as if a dose of endorphins has just been injected into my bloodstream.

He tips my chin up then and crushes his lips down on mine.

He guides me through the growing familiarity of the contact. He couples my bottom lip between his two and uses his thumb on the hinge of my jaw to coax it open. My mouth yields to his and as he deepens our kiss, I involuntarily rock into him.

He moans at that and I swallow the sound.

He grants me small breaks to catch my breath before diving back in, and asks for reassurance that I'm doing alright every now and then.

My hands roam with appreciation while his stay stationary.

His palm pressing into my lower back feels like it could singe a handprint onto my skin. He brushes against the base of my spine, setting my heart aflutter.

I feel hot, heavy and there's a bubbly pit in my belly.

Is this what being turned on feels like?

Coming up for air, I say, "Oh my God, you're a great kisser."

For a millisecond, he stares at my mouth like I took something that he wants back. He blinks then, focusing on me.

He sweeps his thumb across my lower lip. "You're a quick learner," he drawls. "Doing so good, sweetheart."

I preen at his compliment. Nestling closer to him, something stiff prods the apex of my thighs, and I draw my head back to look down between our bodies. He has a prominent hard-on.

"Ignore that," he coos, hooking his pointer finger under my chin, the gentle pressure coaxing me to face him. "We'll cover that another time," he says with a boyish grin.

Then we kiss until all our jaw muscles are numb.

Pedro

It's one am. when we declare our first session a success and head upstairs to sleep in our separate beds.

"See you around, coach," Maisy teases after a moment of consideration, fidgeting on her doorstep, before she retreats to her bedroom.

In my room, I slump against the door, burying my face into my hands with a heavy sigh and replay the past few hours.

I shut my eyes and the image of her, on top of me, and those wide brown eyes that are fixed on me, excited and eager to learn, but tinged with a hint of something uncertain, appears in my mind.

My lips are still tingling from the feel of hers. My hair is unruly from her persistent tugging.

And I still have a boner.

She wants to learn and I'm just enjoying myself, that's all that was on the couch and it's all that ever be. A transactional relationship.

But, fuck, I'd be a lying son of a bitch if I said that the thought of being her first, of being the one to teach her didn't turn me on.

I smack myself on the back of the head, locking away my Maisy-infused fantasies.

I push off the door and stride into the en-suite, shedding my clothes and turning on the faucet.

I need to release some tension.

And I one-hundred percent will not do so while thinking about Miasy.

Or so I tell myself. But the moment I step into the shower my throbbing cock is in my fist, and I pump myself long and slow until the tension coiled inside me rips through me like an electric current.

Scrubbing a hand across my face, I make my way downstairs to get my morning cup of coffee. I move around stealthily, a skill I mastered the moment Oliver came into my life. I unload the dishwasher and draw the curtains while the coffee machine powers up. I go into the living room to let the morning light in when I spot Maisy. I'm surprised to find her already out of bed, she usually wakes an hour behind me.

I haven't seen her from the kitchen because the back of the couch hid her petite form. She's in her typical sleepwear attire—a pair of shorts that reveal her slender legs and a cosy hoodie to ward of the morning chill. She lies on the couch, curled up on her side, clutching a hand to her lower belly. "Are you okay?" I speak softly in hopes of not startling her.

"I'm fine," she answers with her eyes closed.

She doesn't look fine. She looks like she's having the period of hell. She winces.

"Have you taken anything yet?" I tread carefully. 

"I took two Aspirins at five am." Even her words sound painful.

Having a period must seriously suck.

I check the time on my phone. "You can alternate with Motrin. I have some in my gym bag," I offer.

She just nods, rubbing her thumb across the expanse of her stomach. I grab two pills and bring them back with a glass of water and hand it to her. She takes them gratefully.

"Thanks," she mumbles, flopping back against the cushions, closing her eyes once more. "How do you know all these things?"

"I'm thirty-four. I've been with enough women to know the drill. Also, have you seen any box match? My body is constantly in pain." I say and a little smile tugs on the corners of her perfectly pink lips.

After my forenoon training session, I stop off at a bodega and grab her some feminine hygiene products, just in case. My kindness certainly doesn't have anything to do with my dislike of seeing her in discomfort, I lie to myself.

When I arrive home, I locate her in Oliver's play area. She's camping on the floor with my son as they play with building blocks. I drop the bag of tampons and pads by her feet. "Didn't know what you preferred so I got a selection," I mutter.

Frowning, she peers into the top of the bag. I watch as her expression morphs with emotion. "You didn't have to. Let me get my wallet."

She moves to stand but I wave her off. "It's okay. Don't worry about that."

She gives me a bashful smile. She already seems to be feeling better. The Motrin must be working. "Have you had anything for lunch?" She shakes her head. "How does a grilled cheese sound?"

"No, Pedro, you really don't have to do all that," she protests but I'm already halfway to the kitchen.

"I have to throw something together for lunch anyways, so you want a grilled cheese or not?"

She groans. "Ugh! Fine. Make me one."

I'm aware that what I'm doing isn't slick, and that my curiosity towards her is entirely wrong. Taking care of her on her period and buying her feminine hygiene products sound far too boyfriend-y to me.

I am not attracted to Maisy. Not even a little. I tell myself but my dick doesn't seem to care.

×××

The next day, she goes on a coffee run with Oliver. I know because she comes by the gym to tell me about it with a proud smile on her face.

It's the first time she's come to the gym since I hired her to nanny Oliver. She burst through the door, radiating eternal sunshine. My son is strapped to her chest in a baby sling, his head resting on her chest, his arms and legs slathered in sun cream.

She greets Magda at the front desk, turning her body so the receptionist can better see Oliver who squeals in greeting.

Maisy is heading towards me now and my heart starts working overtime. I stop the swinging of the sandbag with my hands, discard my boxing gloves and comb my fingers through my curls.

She's wearing a floral print sundress paired with white tennis shoes and her hair is styled in a dutch braid. A few whips of baby hair have come loose, I feel myself wanting to reach up and tuck them behind her delicate ear. Instead, I rub my thumb and forefinger together.

"We got you coffee," she chimes, holding a small takeaway cup. "It's a double shot, no sugar, no milk." I open my mouth to protest, but she beats me as she adds, "A thank you for the other day."

"Thanks." I take it from her, giving it a swirl before swiging it. "What did you guys do today?"

Maisy toys with Oliver's hands that are dangling at his sides. "We went to a quaint little coffee shop, sat on the terrace and people-watched," she says. "We were brave around strangers, didn't we, Bug?"

"Oh, you were?" I ask, petting my son's head lovingly. He perks up at the sound of my voice.

"Dadda," he exclaims.

I chuckle. "That's right, buddy, I'm your daddy."

"Do you, uhm," she swallows thickly, heat colouring the apples of her cheeks. Have me uttering the word daddy made her blush? "Do you want me to get him out of this thing so you can hold him?" Her hands fiddle with the straps of the sling.

"No, that's alright," I assure her. I let my son clutch onto my thumb and we stay quiet for a moment. From the corner of my eyes, I see her take in the space around us.

Sandbags of various sizes and shapes hang from the ceiling, behind us two boxing rings stand on elevated platforms with ropes squaring them.

In one of the rings, two shirtless twenty-something guys fight against one another. I wonder briefly if she finds either of them attractive. She probably does; they're her age, childless and universally good-looking.

To our right, there's a handful of rowing machines and assault bikes and a mobility area. There's a hallway to our left leading to the locker rooms and coaches' offices.

"I'm done for today. I've gotta take a shower and change but if you guys wait, we can drive back together." I speak up, letting go of my son's tiny hand.

"Sure," Maisy agrees with a beaming smile, smoothing a hand down Oliver's hair.

"Okay, I'll be quick," I say, shoving my workout gear into my duffle bag. "Your dad's still here if you want to say hi to him," I tell her, walking backwards to the locker rooms.

Once outside, I walk her to the private parking lot behind the gym. I've got Oliver perched on my forearm and my gym bag dangling from my other shoulder.

"Do you need help with that?" Maisy offers.

"No, it's alright, I got it."

We get to my car and I open the passenger door for her. She lowers into the seat with a sweet, coy smile I don't miss playing on her kissable mouth.

Shooing away my controversial desires, I put my duffle bag in the trunk before situating Oliver in his car seat.

"I'd imagine you rich people drive more lavish cars," she says and our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

I laugh. "Well, first of all, my car is on the lavish side of the spectrum." I drive a sleek, black Audi A8. "And second of all, I'd say your dad is pretty well off too, don't you agree?"

"Okay, you got me there, but an Audi? Come on, man."

I give the straps of my son's car seat a gentle tug to make sure they're tight but not too tight around his body.

"Hey, I love my car. Plus, I don't need a flashier one." I tell her, getting behind the wheel. "I don't blow my money on things for the sake of having them. That's just not who I am. I have like ten shirts in my wardrobe."

"Then what do you do with your money?"

I slow to a stop at a red light. "I donate half of my income to charity."

"Really? Where to?"

I glance over at her with an impish grin. "Well, currently I'm housing this unemployed college graduate. Total charity case. Tragic story, really."

She lightly swats at my arm, laughing. "Shut up."

The traffic light turns green and I start driving again. "I donate to lesser-known nonprofits that serve impoverished schoolchildren," I divulge, taking on a more serious tone. "My main goal is making sure kids have the textbooks they need for class and food for lunch. And part of my sponsorships is that every year my sponsors have to match my donation in gifting sportwear to kids who need something to wear in order to be active," I elaborate. "There's so much more that could be done but I have no idea how. It feels overwhelming."

Later that night, once I tucked Oliver in, I knock on her door.

She invites me in. I push the door open but decide to linger in the doorway. "I'm gonna put on Gladiator II. Wanna join?" I propose, leaning my forearm on the doorframe.

She's pottering around the room, storing away folded clothes. "I would love to, but I haven't even seen part one."

"Then let's watch part one first."

She chuckles lightly, sweetly. I curse at myself and my obvious desperation to spend more time with her.

"When's showtime?"

"Whenever you want."

"Alright. I'll be downstairs in a minute," she says, and as she breezes past me to the guest bathroom, her flowery scent heads me.

As inconspicuous as I can be, I inhale every note of her smell.

Then a wave of guilt washes over me.

This isn't right. Me lusting after my coach's daughter, after the girl who looks after my son, it couldn't get any more morally grey than this.

I should shut down my developing feelings for her because she's way too young for me and even if age wasn't a problem, there's no way in hell she thinks of me as I think of her.

I hate myself for not being strong enough to close the door on my selfish feelings.

×××

The next day I only have my morning gym session since two days from now I'll be in the ring. To prepare I'm tapering which means less time in the gym and more time resting.

When I get home, the house is loud with cackles of glee. The sounds guide me into the kitchen where Oliver and the girl who is rapidly climbing the ranks to be my second favourite person are baking.

Maisy's nose is covered in flour as is Oliver up to his elbows. He's displaying a toothy grin and is clapping enthusiastically, making dust clouds.

Maisy's got my son situated on her left hip and as he wiggles in her arms, her sundress inches up. I give the bare skin an appreciative glance. She sees me do it. Wearing a bashful expression, she tugs the fabric down.

"We—well, I made cookies." She slides a plate in front of me across the kitchen island.

"Chocolate chip?" I ask with a smirk playing on my mouth, my gaze lifting to meet hers.

She lets Oliver down and leans on her elbows. "Mhm. Whoever bakes them with raisins needs to be locked up."

I chuckle and grab one. "Agreed," I say through a mouthful and as it dissolves on my tongue, I let out an obnoxious moan. "Maisy, these are ridiculously good." I take another bite.

My compliment makes her beam. "Thank you," she mumbles softly.

We share a cookie in companionable silence while watching Oliver crawl across the floor. Then I suggest we go out for coffee and she obliges me with it, even lets me pay for her iced latte.

We take our coffees to go and drink it in the nearby park. We lounge in the grass, Oliver squirming on his back between our bodies. She asks me about my training strategy and how I feel about my upcoming match. I tell her that I'll be getting the jitters the morning of but as for now, I feel confident about it. Then I inquire about her job-hunting. She gives a terse answer and I spare her my many follow-up questions. Instead, I get her talking about her degree. Her eyes shine as she explains Wallerstein's world system theory and how that changed herperception of international relations. What she's saying is so complicated for me that I lose track after the first couple of sentences but still nod along to make her feel like she isn't boring me because she truly isn't.

At home that night, I give Oliver a bath and I shower while Maisy watches him. Then I take over once more and get my son bed-ready in a pair of snug pj's. We work on his walk a bit before I read him a story and put him down.

He's out in a matter of minutes, giving me plenty of time to pack both his and my suitcases for our flight tomorrow.

As I pack, I fall into a meditative trance. By now I do this on autopilot. I no longer stress or give too much significance to my upcoming match, knowing I put in the work. I have enough seasons behind me to feel calm about it.

I used to get anxious many days prior to my matches and that took a toll on me mentally. Over the years, Rick and I worked on building up my confidence and figuring out a system that removes some of the unproductive stress from my training.

Boxing often is a mind game rather than a physical one so my strategy adapted. Training in my thirties is less about my physique and technique and more about maintaining it while strengthening my mental health. I think my mental clarity is what differentiates me from the other boxers. I throw a solid punch and have great footwork but being there mentally when we're on the umpteenth round is what matters.

I zip up the suitcases and carry them downstairs. 

"Can we watch Gladiator II when you're done?" Maisy calls from the living room.

I stop under the archway leading into the space. "Did you pack your bags?" I quiz, hands on my hips.

"All packed and ready to go," she promises.

We're maybe one-fourth of a way into the film when she tells me offhandedly I'm the real-life version of Marcus Acacius but younger, and since she spends all one hundred and fifty-six minutes of the movie drooling over the Roman General I take it as a compliment.

I try my best to concentrate on the plot happening on-screen but it all feels domestic—cosying up on opposite ends of the couch and enjoying a movie together—almost too comforting. On second thought, this whole day felt too domestic, too family-day like.

The realization scares the shit out of me but as we let the credits roll, a part of me—a self-sabotaging part of me— secretly hopes our movie nights become a tradition.

.

.

.

When he gets in, he's exhausted. Next week, he has his first match of the season and I'm flying with him to Miami to look after Oliver.

He's less hurried to check on his son, now greeting me before he peeks his head into the nursery to make sure Oliver is still breathing. I take that as a sign that I've earned his trust around his son.

Over the span of the past week, I too have learnt to trust myself around Oliver. Though I must admit, he's making it easy by being a mellow fourteen-month-old. He makes me feel like I have a knack for kids. I was even debating taking him on a coffee date, but I wanted to ask his dad before I did so.

We spend our days working on broadening his vocabulary and on his balance. While he takes his naps, I tinker with my resume and send in a few job applications before losing all my willpower to exist. When that happens, I entertain myself by going through Pedro's book collection, flipping through the well-thumbed pages of his paperbacks.

I didn't anticipate that taking care of a fourteen-month-old would tire me out the way it does, but by Oliver's bedtime, I'm ready to hit the sack.

I wait until Pedro gets home with the baby monitor. We exchange a few words—I ask how his training was and he inquires how Oliver's and I's day went. Mainly our conversations revolve around his son.

Tonight, however, he shows more interest in getting to know me.

I'm lounging on the couch, scrolling on my phone when he walks through the front door. He texted me late afternoon, informing me that he had an emergency meeting with one of his sponsorship partners.

I hear him in the foyer, putting his shoes away and the soft thud of his duffle bag as he drops it. Instead of checking on his son, this time he goes in search of me. He strolls over to me, hands in his pockets.

My gaze rises over his tall body. On the bottom, he's wearing a pair of black pressed pants, and the material hugs his corded thighs. A faded green chenille button-down graces his upper body. The first three buttons are undone, displaying his pectorals. If I squint I make out the freckles dotting his tanned skin.

"Hi."

"Hi," he parrots, his rich, velvety voice is like a caress. "Is Oliver sleeping?"

I pass him the baby monitor. "Out like a log."

His eyes fill with overt fondness as he watches his son through the screen. "He didn't give you trouble?"

I shake my head. "He was easy, as always."

He sets the device on the coffee table. "You're really good with him. He likes you."

"I'm glad. I like him too. He's the sweetest." I busy my hands with redoing my bun. "And while I got you, I wanted to ask if it would be okay with you if I took him out on a little outing, like for a stroll around the neighbourhood or to the bookstore? Just to stimulate him."

His face brightens. "Yeah, sure. I bet he'd enjoy that." He makes his way into the kitchen. The first floor of his house is open plan so I can follow him with my eyes. "I have a stroller in the foyer's wardrobe. But if you don't want to push him around I have a sling you can use to carry him on your body. That's in the bottom drawer of his dresser."

"Cool, I'll test it out."

He begins to open cabinets, my cue to leave. I stand, starting for the stairs.

"Hey," he stops me, "You don't have to lock yourself up in your room once I get home, you know that right?"

I freeze on the bottom step. "I know. I just don't want to get in your hair."

He chuckles at that. "You're not getting in my hair." He bends to open the built-in wine cooler and grabs a bottle of red. "Now, I don't normally encourage alcoholism," he starts, rummaging through his cupboards. "But would you want a glass of red?" He must see hesitation in my eyes because he adds, "You've been taking care of my boy for a week now and I don't even know what's your favourite colour." He flashes one of his debonair smiles and the cannibalistic butterflies in my stomach start flapping their wings. "Soo... can I get you to tell me about yourself over a bottle of wine?"

I feel myself preen under his soft gaze. "Fine, but you're not going to get me talking with the most dreaded job interview question." I retake my seat on the couch.

He laughs, pours us a glass each. "Fair point. A little too unoriginal." He carries our glasses to the couch where he plops down next to me. "You lost your mom, right? Rick hinted at it a couple of times," he asks, handing me my glass.

"Yeah, when I was seventeen. She had a heart attack."

"What was she like?"

I let out a slow breath. "Fun... and too kind for this world. She was my best friend in a way. She worked as a nurse, met my dad in the ER, but you probably know that already," I tell him. The memories of my mom bring a fond smile to my face. "What's your family like?"

He grins and puffs air from his cheeks. "Let's see. I'm one out of thirty-four cousins. I was nine months old when we left Chile to seek political asylum."

"Political asylum?" I frown, taking a sip of my wine.

"Yeah. My parents were liberal socialists and they had family members very involved with the opposition movement against the military regime at the time. So we fled to Denmark, spent a bit of time there and then we settled in San Antonio for a bit before moving to Orange County."

"And now you're a New Yorker. That's a lot of moving," I observe. "I've only ever lived in New York besides my college years. And what about your parents?"

"My mom died too, actually. She passed away in my early twenties, when my boxing career was taking off. That was a fucking hard time for me." He looks away briefly before our gazes lash together once more. "She was sort of the love of my life. I use her maiden name, Pascal, as my stage name."

He relives these intimate memories for me; I see it in his eyes. Him revealing such personal details of himself twists something in me I can't identify. I just know it holds significance.

"She must've been wonderful," I offer.

"She really was." He takes a sip of his wine. "Do you have any siblings?"

I shake my head. "Only child."

We continue to swap stories from our childhood. He tells me about his siblings and how he found boxing. I confess how I didn't have that romanticized college experience and how lost I feel now that I graduated.

Then he starts asking me questions and, while I talk, he sits, unmoving, and listens to my answers.

We get sucked into the conversation and as we do, we both relax into the couch. I curl my legs underneath me and he props one leg on the edge of the couch so he can turn towards me. He leans his side against the back of it, his head propped up by his hand as he studies me.

He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him I don't. He doesn't react, his face unreadable.

"On the topic of love," I take a sip before continuing, "I've always had this silly, romantic notion of falling in love organically—like meeting someone on the subway or in a coffee shop," I divulge, surprising myself with my admission. "But the chances of that are growing slimmer by the day. God, twenty-one is a harrowing age," I mumble, staring into my glass ruefully.

Pedro takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "I think that thought is sort of beautiful. And it's definitely not silly."

A little smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "I appreciate you saying that, but that's not how the dating pool works. And I hate going out and clubbing, so I don't foresee myself a bright future in the love department." I let out a sigh. "I'm aware I should put myself out there, but a part of me is like, if it doesn't happen naturally, I'm not sure I want it."

"Which part? The meet-cute or the falling in love?" He tops up our glasses.

"I guess I want us to meet without it feeling forced, if that makes sense. Like, I don't want to chase love, I want it to find me."

His facial expression softens and something warm floods his eyes, making them gleam. Our gazes slot together like puzzle pieces and I'm forever hypnotized.

This doesn't feel forced, my heart screams at me.

He doesn't seem to notice my silence and goes on talking.

For a moment my brain goes blank and I have to ask him to repeat himself. He chuckles at me and the deep, mellifluous sound rolls through me. My whole body buzzes.

As I continue to overshare, he grants me his undivided attention. His focus is like he's shining a light in my eyes. I feel seen.

He gets me talking, and I'm rarely the talker. With most people, I'm the listener, the shoulder to lean on. Alongside the very few—nowadays my dad and grandma—he's able to create a space where I can unburden myself. He doesn't judge when I reveal that I don't have many, if any friends—the closest connection to friendship I have is with Lindsey, my roommate from college, but I wouldn't categorize the two of us as anything above friendly acquaintances. I leave out the part that even though I'm turning twenty-two in a few months, I'm yet to have a boyfriend. Hell, I haven't even been kissed before.

Up until recently, my lack of experience in love and relationships didn't bother me that much. But now that I've graduated, the empty cavern I've masterfully ignored all my college years feels more substantial. Now I just feel embarrassed for myself.

All while staying unjudgemental, Pedro is asking the best follow-up questions and as our conversation reaches a natural conclusion, I'm left as if I just had a vulnerable but productive therapy session.

He's now telling me about a road trip he went on a few years ago, and I try to listen, I do, but his bulging biceps captivate my attention. They're like suspension cables. Every time he makes the tiniest of moment, the muscles in his arm ripple. I must be seriously touch-starved because I want to reach out and wrap my fingers around his biceps, which my fingers probably couldn't encircle.

His other hand that's not supporting his head holds his glass, balancing it on his thigh. I've never in my life been this severely mesmerized by thighs.

I hum a few times and say "That's so cool" to show that I'm listening before my stare leaves his face and dips to his hand once again.

His forefinger is tracing the lip of the wine glass. The longer I stare, the sexier his hand becomes. He has a little doodle tattoo between his thumb and forefinger and I find myself wanting to sink my teeth into the flesh.

This is so inappropriate, I scold myself. I really shouldn't be mapping his body.

I try my best to tidy up my head but the two glasses I drowned have made me loose and floaty.

"You alright there?" he probes, tilting his head to the side. My cheeks crimson. He must've clocked I was drooling over him. The corner of his beautiful, moustache-topped mouth lifts in an amused smirk.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm great," I cover up and a laugh slips me.

I clumsily place my now empty glass down and he reaches out to steady me by the elbow. My breathing turns shallow and rushed with the knowledge of his proximity.

"What is it?" he presses, chuckling lightly, clearly entertained by my tipsiness.

I groan, hiding my flushed face in my hands, cursing myself and the wine for making me more candid than I intended to be. "Nothing," I hiccup.

"Now you've got to tell me," he urges, cupping one of my elbows in his massive palm.

His touch is warm, his callouses scrap my skin. It feels like a parade of fire ants are crawling out of the area he's touching into every direction.

I move my hand from my face, dropping it onto my lap as his fingers trail up my forearm, which he squeezes lightly before letting go.

"It's stupid really," I mumble.

"Come on, you can tell me," he assures me, his eyes crinkling with a smile.

I shake my head at myself. "It's just that—oh my God, I can't believe I'm saying this—, it's just that you have nice hands and arms, okay?"

His cheeks blush visibly at my compliment, but he immediately turns it into a joke. "These?" He pulls back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flexes his bicep.

"Yeah," I admit sheepishly, letting out a nervous laugh.

"Can touch them if you want," he teases in a low murmur, a crooked smile spreading across his perfectly smooth lips.

"No, Pedro, I shouldn't have said what I said," I stammer coyly.

"Alright, alright," he drops it and fixes his sleeve. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

I swallow, whising away the redness colouring my face. Silence lapses for a beat and I notice the tops of his ears have turned red.

He leans over to grab the bottle of wine. "More?"

I shake my head. "I'd rather not further embarrass myself."

His smile fading, he chugs the rest of his wine and stands up. He gathers our glasses and the bottle, carrying them over to the sink where he rinses them. "I should get some sleep," he says with a sigh.

I knock on her door once, then twice. No answer. I check my notification centre on my phone for any texts from her. None. I knock once more, calling on her before pushing open the door with my palm spread flat on it.

She's in the centre of her room, Airpods in her ears and she sways along to the music. She's dressed in grey sweatpants and a tight-fitting black crop top that accentuates her trim waist. Her eyes are closed, her head is back, and she's just letting it out, her cherry lips mouthing the lyrics.

My thoughts about her are smack dab in my face. She is tragically beautiful.

She slow dances and reaches up with a hand to stroke her cheek. The movement makes her shirt rise up an inch, revealing a stripe of her milky skin and her belly button.

For a split second, I think I see her without any filter. In that moment she's totally unguarded and the outside reflects the in, her inner torment. She's raw and woundable, I realize.

I stand there, my hand on the doorknob, unmoving. I should back out of her room, give her her space and not invade it like I'm doing now.

She must feel my eyes on her because her eyes flutter then snap wide open. She jumps a little, clutching at her chest. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," she gasps.

"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," I rush out.

I don't miss the tremble in her hands as she takes out her Airpods, and the desolate look in her big brown eyes grips my heart.

"Hey," I rasp. "Everything okay?"

"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," she lies and I can tell.

"Are you sure?" I probe, edging closer. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay."

"No, please, don't," she chokes on her words, her bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"

For a second I get worried that something is wrong, really wrong, wondering if she's gotten bad news.

"What's going on?" I urge, anxious now.

She pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head at me.

As much as I don't want to, it bothers me that she's hurting. I wish she would talk to me.

She begins snapping the rubber band encircling her wrist. It's enough to redden her skin. I've noticed it before, it's one of her nervous mannerisms, the same as when she fiddles with her necklace.

Watching the impulsive way she pulses the band against her skin, a flash of unease courses through me.

"Sweetheart?" I keep my voice low and calm.

She tries to sidestep me, but I catch her wrists. I rub my thumbs on the inseam of her wrist.

"Hey," I croon, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" I let go of one of her wrists and tip up her chin with my index finger, forcing eye contact.

The usual shine is gone from her beautiful doe-like eyes. They look troubled as if covered by some thin, translucent membrane.

I ache to take some of her pain away.

"I can tell something is bothering you. Now, if you want to talk about whatever it is, then we'll do that," I propose in a low murmur. "And if you don't, then we'll talk about something else. Let me help you slow it down, flower."

A deep frown marrs her forehead. I reach up to flatten it with my thumb. Her eyes drift closed for a second. "Sounds like a plan?"

"Y-yes," she stutters, going putty in my hold.

"So, what's it's gonna be?" I ask, smiling at her softly.

"It's just that...I—I'm shameful of my lacking life. It feels like I've been left behind. It's like I've missed my train, like there went my chances to feel how exhilarating and blind first love is," she reveals, rushing her words. "All my peers are in relationships, planning their weddings and thinking about when they'll start trying for babies, while I'm stuck in this cycle, not meeting people and with no prospect in life," she hiccups. "I'm getting older but not achieving any milestones I thought I would by now."

I absorb her words, my focus lasered in on her.

"And I know I've got all the time so why do I feel rushed?" She pouts, her cherry lips trembling. She shrugs deflatedly. "A part of me just wants to finally experience what I'm missing."

"I've never had a boyfriend, have never been kissed, have never held hands romantically. Nathan aside, no one has asked me out on a date." Her waterline threatens to spill over. "I can't help but wonder if it's me. If I'm an uninstresting ugly prude who’s unlovable." She chokes back a sniffle and bolts tighten in my chest.

Witnessing her at her rawest, my protective instincts rouse. I want to fight off her demons.

"Stop," I say, wincing at her words, "Don’t talk about yourself like that."

I can tell by her rapid blinking that she's withholding her tears. My chest pangs.

"It's okay. You can cry. There's no shame in crying," I assure her in a whisper. "You can fall apart and I'll hold you."

That's when she dissolves into tears. I take her in my arms and press her to me. She starts apologizing for how she's acting, making me bleed.

"You're fine, sweet girl," I murmur reassuringly.

I cup the back of her skull and gently lay her head on my chest, shushing her. She fits my body perfectly, her fragile form in my hands makes me think I'm holding fine china.

"Listen to me Maisy," I say to her, low and serious. "Where you are in life right now is exactly where you should be at. Everyone has their own trajectory. Just because you're at a different stage than what you think your peers are, doesn't mean you're falling behind. Don't compare yours to others," I murmur slowly, letting her savour my sentiments.

"And you are loved and worthy of love. If only I could show you," I add, the words whispered into her hair.

I keep her exactly where she is, resting her head on my chest, and start rocking us in a slow sway and uttering sweet nothings at her.

When she calms, she lifts her head, peering up at me through her lush lashes.

"I'm sorry, I shoudn't have dumped all of that on you. I—I—," she burbles.

"Stop. Don't apologize," I coo at her. I cup her jaw tenderly and sweep my thumb underneath her eyes, wiping away her teardrops. "You can always unburden yourself with me," I say, bringing her head to lay on my chest once again.

My words of consolation make her break down crying once more.

"Oh, now you're crying again," I remark in undertones. "You're okay, babygirl. You're okay." I assure her in a tender voice, smoothing down her hair.

Sobs wrack her body. I gather her into my arms, rocking us to and fro. Apparently, this method not only works on little kids but on adults too. Deep, mellifluous sounds and slow movements soothe her.

I allow her the time she needs to recompose herself.

She presses closer and hides her face in the warm folds of my t-shirt. My arms wrap tighter around her.

She inhales against me, her body going lax in my cradle. "I like your scent," she says, her voice partially muffled by my clothed chest. "Sorry, that's weird to say."

A chuckle rises in me, and a small smile stretches my lips. "I showered after the gym."

She peels back her head to look up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and oh so tired.

We hold each other's gaze for a moment. A long, lingering moment. And then, just for a second, for a split second, her eyes dip to my lips.

That's all it takes. In that moment, I know she was thinking about kissing me just then. It isn't just one-sided. She is interested in me, even if only a tiny bit.

Encouraged, my heart kicks into high gear as I start debating my options. My restraint is evaporating and I decide I'm going to make my move. The question is how. Should I just kiss her? Would she tell me to go fuck myself? Probably. What if I kiss the back of her hand? Would she yank it away? She would, I know she would.

I need something less, more subtle to test the waters.

Her hands, starting from my forearms, mount my arms languidly, memorizing every dip and curve of my upper body.

Her throat works with a gulp.

"Maisy," I breathe, low and raspy.

She drapes her arms around my neck and my body takes over, ducking down, my mouth mere inches from hers.

Before I can come up with a game plan, she beats me to it by placing a close-mouthed kiss on my lips.

My resolves break and I take the lead, showing her how it's done, drawing the kiss out.

"This is bad," I mutter against her lips. "We—I shouldn't . . .want this. I shouldn't want you."

I close back in, coupling her lips. Her body responds by arching her back, our fronts pressing together.

"Fuck," I moan, revelling in the sweet taste of hers.

Her hands bracket my face, all timid and shy. Her tentativeness makes me weak.

I'm also painfully aware of my hard-on straining against my fly.

My arms that have been slithered around her in our embrace loosen, one hand following the curve of her spine to settle on the nape of her neck, angling her just so. My other arm winds around her waist, anchoring her to me as I slip my tongue past hers testingly before retracting.

"Pedro," she sighs my name, a breathless plea.

I turn to kiss her the other way around, our noses brushing, when my son's wail brings us abruptly back down to earth.

We separate and she touches her lips as if they're burning. Her gaze turns watery as she meets mine. I think I'm going to be sick.

This was a horrible mistake.

"I'll go," I say, needing to remove myself from the situation.

I find Oliver standing in his crib, streaks of tears leaking down his chubby cheeks as he holds onto the rails. "You're okay, Bug. I'm here, I'm here," I coo as he launches himself at me, hiding his face in the crook of my neck. I hold him, feeling the tremors run through his body.

Slowly, his breathing calms down, and my rioting emotions do as well. He sniffs a few more times and then pulls back. "It's all right, kid," I mumble. I kiss his forehead and tap his little nose.

I rock him for a minute or two then tuck him in, and thankfully he's out like a log.

I close his door and head straight to my bedroom, like a coward.

Just as I reach my door, Maisy steps into the hallway and her voice washes over me like a tsunami.

"Pedro?" She asks tentatively.

I scrub my hand across my face. "What happened...it was wrong."

I keep my back to her, incapable of bearing the look of disgust that's certainly written all over her face.

I can tell she's about to say something, most likely she wants to get an explanation for my unjustifiable behaviour. I cut in before she could utter a single word.

"It was wrong and it shouldn't have happened. Your father is my coach, and you're Oliver's nanny, goddamnit!" I drop my head to the door. "If that alarm didn't..." I pause, taking a cleansing breath. "It won't happen again."

If I say it enough, maybe I'll believe it.

She doesn't say anything but I feel her eyes on my back.

His—perhaps overbearing—behaviour at the bar last Saturday lit a fuse that's shortening by the day, and I'm not sure what happens when it burns to the end.

Each time he's within arms reach, he sends my brain into a sea of nothingness. I have to ward off every thought that features me wanting to climb him like a child would a tree.

I still get phantom sensations of his leather jacket around my shoulders and can still recall the pressure of his calloused palm holding mine.

He's messed up my brain chemistry to the point sometimes I think he is too attracted to me. Randomly, I think I catch him staring at me with those warm, deep-set brown eyes. Much of the time, he appears as if he's fighting an internal battle; it feels like he wants to touch me but decides against it at the last second.

It's stupid, really, because Pedro means nothing to me. I'm supposed to tell myself that he's the intimidating boxer who is trained by my dad or the untouchable father of the boy I look after.

But as I wake today, I'm done lying to myself.

Over the last week, I've come to terms with the fact that I am attracted to a man twelve years my senior. And there's nothing I or anybody else can do about that.

I've come to like him a lot. How he is with Oliver, all gentle and warm. How he is in the ring, all lethal and dominating. And I like how he is with me. I've searched for red flags so I could stop myself from harbouring these feelings but I've come up short.

I like him so much so that I'm starting to think it's not just a fleeting crush.

×××

I should've been smarter, thinking that sitting in on Pedro's training session wouldn't affect me.

I'm exceptionally good at self-sabotage.

Oliver and I set up camp in a lesser frequented corner of the gym from where we have a clear view of Pedro exhausting his body.

His workout is a mix of conditioning and strength training.

Right now, I'm watching him bench-press two times my bodyweight, and he reps it.

When he finishes with his set, he reracks the bar and sits up.

A cutoff t-shirt and basketball shorts grace his body. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric.

Oliver squeals, handing me one of the wooden building blocks he's playing with. I tear my eyes away from his—very hot—dad and help him stack the pieces on top of each other.

Halfway through his session, Pedro takes off his shirt.

Rick is demonstrating for him, moving back and forth in a fighting stance to avoid the swinging of the punching bag and Pedro's eyes move to me before promptly focusing back on my dad.

Heat radiates off my body. I feel like I'm on fire.

Now my dad's wearing mitts and coaches Pedro to punch his palms in a series of reaction drills.

Sweat drips down Pedro, cascading in ripples until it falls prey to the crevices of his taut ab muscles.

When he fixes his gaze on me once more, he catches my eyes drifting across his torso.

I guiltily jerk my gaze back to his face. He's smirking impishly.

He keeps my eyes captivated. I chew on the inside of my cheeks. His smile lingers, and his gaze falls over me like a blanket.

I'm reading way too into this.

He's just trying not to make it awkward for me by being nice. He probably thinks of me as a child anyway.

×××

My Pedro-infused fantasies aside, Oliver and I have grown closer. On Wednesday we took the subway and explored the market stalls on Union Square. On Friday we spent the forenoon in Central Park, playing in the shade and he fell asleep on me on the way back home. An older woman smiled at us on the subway, said to me what a sweet boy I've got. I didn't correct her.

In such a short time, I have gotten attached to this little boy. He's so smart and vibrant. I enjoy spending time with him, and the more time that passes, the more I hope Pedro doesn't find a replacement nanny. I want to be Oliver's friend, and being his nanny has given me this one thing that I seem to be good at.

On Monday of the next week, while he's in his play area, I open my laptop and go through my emails. I delete a ton of junk mail, a reminder to pay my credit card bill, and then find a response from a recruiter. Dread gurgles through my gut. The dread of being rejected intertwines with the dread of being hired.

It's a rejection letter.

A part of me wants to make dad happy by landing a good-paying big-girl job. Another part of me wants to leave the corporate world behind, and learn another profession, maybe nursing, or go fully academic. And for the life of me, I cannot decide which voice to obey.

I descend into my head over it.

The internal battle takes me out of it for the remainder of the afternoon and by nighttime, it occupies most of my headspace.

Bedtime goes smoothly. We read two chapters of Oliver's current favourite picture book and he dozes off in my arms.

I tuck him in, turn on the baby monitor and his white noise machine before tiptoeing out of the nursery.

In the safety of my room now, I plug my earphones in, put on a playlist that's intended to make me cry and surrender to the heaviness that's been nagging away at me all afternoon.

×××

I rarely let my inhibitions fall and this is one of those rare occasions.

I sway my body while Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swiftblasts in my ears. I let the music tune out all my self-destructive thoughts and close my eyes.

As the song fades out, I blink away the beginnings of tears.

As my eyes accustom to the dimly lit conditions of my bedroom—the lone source of light is the syrupy lamp on my nightstand—I spot a looming, shadowed figure in my doorway. I recoil in horror.

I do a double take and I'm relieved to find Pedro standing there.

"Jesus Christ, you scared me," I whisper-shriek.

"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," he says apologetically.

I work against the tremble in my hands and unplug my earphones.

He seems to read my mood as he slowly edges into the room. "Hey," he drawls. "Everything okay?"

"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," I say past the lump in my throat, trying to smile.

"Are you sure?" he probes, approaching me. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay." His eyes are as warm as the summer sun as he wanders my face.

I can't cope with his attentiveness. "No, please, don't," I beg, my bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"

His brows furrow in concern. "What's going on?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, not bearing his intense gaze, and shake my head at him.

I feel him there, standing over me like a giant question mark.

"Sweetheart?" he calls on me in that honeyed voice, using the same endearment he used in the bar.

Instead of analyzing the effect the petname has on me, I zero in on the stinging pain I inflict on myself by snapping the hair tie on my wrist.

I go to sidestep him, but he catches my wrists in light, loose circles. His thumb moves back and forth over the inseam of my wrists. I get the sense he's trying to soothe me. It's working.

"Hey," he croons, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" He lets go of one of my wrists and lifts my chin with his index finger hooked under it, making me look at him.

He studies me, his gaze raw, diligent, unwavering.

"I can tell something is bothering you. Now, if you want to talk about whatever it is, then we'll do that," he coos, maintaining eye contact. "And if you don't, then we'll talk about something else. Let me help you slow it down, flower."

He smoothes my frown and the tenderness of his touch makes the world fall away. "Sounds like a plan?"

"Y-yes," I stutter, incapable of not melting into his touch.

"So, what's it gonna be?" he prompts, gifting me with a placating smile.

I shrug, not planning on saying anything, but suddenly finding myself pouring out words, the comforting warmth of his presence making me say things I wouldn't normally admit aloud to anyone.

"It's just that...I—I'm shameful of my lacking life," I blurt. "I feel like I've been left behind. It's like I've missed the train, like there went my chances to feel how exhilarating and blind first love is."  The tightness in my throat threatens to turn into crying. "All my peers are in relationships, planning their weddings and thinking about when they'll start trying for babies, while I'm stuck in this cycle, not meeting people and with no prospect in life." I choke on a swallow. "I'm getting older but not achieving any milestones I thought I would by now."

His stare wanders my face as he listens intently, not a hint of judgment in his expression. Despite the tightness in my throat, I continue.

"And I know I've got all the time so why do I feel rushed?" I ask no one in particular. My shoulders lift then sag. "A part of me just wants to finally experience what I'm missing."

"I've never had a boyfriend, have never been kissed, have never held hands romantically. Nathan aside, no one has asked me out on a date." The beginnings of tears tickle the back of my throat. "I can't help but wonder if it's me. If I'm an uninstresting ugly prude who’s unlovable," I say, choked up.

Saying these thoughts that have sat on my chest for quite some time now feels overwhelming. Facing my feelings isn't liberating, it's crushing.

"Stop," he grumbles, his face grimacing, "Don’t talk about yourself like that."

I blink rapidly to try to withhold the unshed tears. I refuse to cry in front of him. I refuse to.

"It's okay. You can cry. There's no shame in crying," he tells me consolingly then. "You can fall apart and I'll hold you."

A wrenching sob surges into my throat then. As I begin to crumble, I try to apologize to him, but my words come out jumbled and incoherent. And then he speaks into my darkness and the tears spill down my cheeks.

"You're fine, sweet girl," he murmurs.

It's spoken in a way he might say those words to his son if he fell and bumped his head. It's gentle and steady, and works far too well on my chaotic brain.

I don't stop the onslaught of emotion this time. I break, and just like Pedro promised, he's there to catch my pieces, holding them together and keeping them safe until I can piece myself back together.

"Listen to me Maisy," he murmurs, low and serious. "Where you are in life right now is exactly where you should be at. Everyone has their own trajectory. Just because you're at a different stage than what you think your peers are, doesn't mean you're falling behind. Don't compare yours to others," he tells me slowly, allowing me time to take it in.

"And you are loved and worthy of love. If only I could show you," he whispers into my hair.

Hearing his words is like bear-hugging the sun.

I let my pretence fall and just cry.

It's uncanny how comfortable it feels to let myself lean against him in one of only a handful of touches to pass between us in the weeks we've lived together.

He's holding me like he's mastered the art of hugging long ago.

One of his hands cradles the back of my head, applying the right amount of pressure, and brings it to rest against his chest. His other arm slithers around my midsection, and his squish grounds me.

I breathe in the scent of his cologne, and cling to him. He keeps cooing sweet nothings at me, and the deep timbre of his voice accompanied by his stable hold lulls me into a soft stupor.

I peel back a little once I feel semi-normal, trying to apologize for oversharing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all of that on you. I—I—."

"Stop. Don't apologize," he drawls. He sweeps the tip of his finger underneath my eyes, wiping away my dried tears. "You can always unburden yourself with me," he says, bringing my head to lay on his chest once more.

The tears start anew. I cannot place his unconditional kindness. I'm not sure why he is the way he is with me.

"Oh, now you're crying again," he observes quietly. "You're okay, babygirl. You're okay." he croons in a tender voice, petting my hair.

The endearment makes me sob harder.

I cry until I'm a rag doll in his arms.

He supports my weight and holds me upright as we stand there, him rocking us side to side. The predictable rhythm sedates me.

There are no sounds around us, only our inhalations and exhalations. He nuzzles his lips against my temple. I ball up my fists in his chest.

Periodically, headlights pass the window pane. An ambulance whooses past. We listen to its wail.

I inhale against his t-shirt. It's a weathered yellow Lakers top. "I like your scent," I tell him, the afterthought slipping me. "Sorry, that's weird to say."

His chest vibrates with a chuckle against my cheek. "I showered after the gym."

I draw back enough to look at him. And the achingly soft expression on his face makes me pout.

Without consciously deciding to do it, my eyes dip to his smooth, raspberry-pink lips and the moustache atop them.

He's Pedro, the way-too-old man whose son I nanny. I need to let go of him. I repeat these sentences in my head.

Instead of obeying my morals, my hands scrape up his arms. They feel amazing. My fingers instinctively follow the ridges of his protruding bicep veins. His muscles flex under my touch. I follow the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of him makes me swallow thickly.

"Maisy," he says warningly.

When I reach the back of his neck, he folds over me, slowly, one of his hands coming to press lightly on my waist. There's a moment of hesitation as our mouths hover close.

I should break this tension that's been building.

But at the same time, I want him to make me feel warm.

I do the bad thing, tip my chin up and press a close-mouthed kiss to his lips.

It's fleeting and feather-light. Our lips barely brush.

My first ever (almost) kiss.

I draw away then, suddenly embarrassed and panicked.

He's going to tell me to pack up my stuff and leave.

To my absolute surprise, he chases me with his mouth and gives me another peck.

My knees buckle.

I fall back on my toes and he follows me, bending to keep our mouths touching.

My body involuntarily lifts towards him.

"This is bad," he grunts against my lips. "We—I shouldn't...want this. I shouldn't want you."

That's when he takes my mouth.

My hands hold his face, loving the way the scruff pricks at my skin. He moans into our kiss, and then his tongue slides against mine. He kisses me deeper, one of his hands curving around my throat to bracket the back of my neck as the other finds purchase on my hip.

"Fuck," he cusses between pulls of my lips. The word, its delivery sends a shock through my spine. I get full-body chills.

His imposing touch makes me feel small and the deliciously domineering way in which he kisses me makes me feel entirely out of control.

"Pedro," I breathe, feeling so much. The heat of desire, the fear of regret, the need for more of this—of him. All of it wages within me, knowing we shouldn't do this and not caring enough to stop. And then, like cold water on a burning fire, a noise stops us both— Oliver's cry pierces the charged space between us.

We separate, my hand automatically touching my kiss-slicked lips. I still feel his mouth on me.

"I'll go," he coughs, his eyes filling with a pang of sadness I don't quite understand.

And then he storms off.

I just stand there, trying to link what just went down with my head.

All my life I've been anticipating the consequences. Whatever just happened, it was new and fun and exciting. I want to give casual Maisy a turn at the wheel.

In a few short minutes, I hear him trudging up the stairs. I steel myself and step out into the hallway. "Pedro?"

He freezes in his doorway, his back to me. "What happened... it was wrong," he sighs, his voice tired.

I feel my courage building, the words rising. Right as I open my mouth to tell him I don't think it was wrong, or even if it was, I might like a break from smart decisions, he exhales heavily and goes on: "It was wrong and it shouldn't have happened. Your father is my coach, and you're Oliver's nanny, goddamnit!" He groans, leaning his head against his door. "If that alarm didn't..." he trails off before adding, "It won't happen again."

I should disagree with him, tell him that I want this—him, us.

I lack the courage.

"We both know it was a mistake," he says definitively, disappearing into his bedroom and taking a shard of my heart with him.

What a perfect timing for my identity crisis; he wants to abide by properties while I want him to do unspeakable things with me.