Son of a bitch. Fucking goddamn son of a bitch.
Shaking my head, I tie off the condom with shaking hands, chuck it into the trash and wipe my face on the back of my hand, my pulse roaring in my ears.
No idea why I’m so motherfucking pissed. This—me fucking her, her opening up so sweetly—doesn’t mean anything.
Maybe that’s why. It doesn’t mean anything. Not to me. It’s just a fuck.
And it shouldn’t mean anything to her, either, but Christ, her first time? Like that, on a kitchen counter, in the dark, with me pounding into her like I have demons riding at my heels?
“Go home,” I tell her, my voice like gravel.
“Matt…” Her voice is broken down the middle. I don’t wanna hear. Don’t wanna see her tears.
That’s what I keep telling myself, though I can’t help a moment of weakness, that something I always feel around her. Lifting my hand, I touch her face, swipe my thumb through her hot tears.
My own eyes burn.
But I can’t. I fucking can’t.
“Just go home.” Jerking my hand away, I pull up my pants. I pick up her clothes from the floor and pile them on the counter beside her.
Then I turn and go, getting the hell out of the kitchen, starting up the stairs.
This was a fucking huge mistake. Fucking my nanny, a girl who never slept with anyone before, a girl… who isn’t Emma.
I barely manage not to slam the door of my bedroom shut, not to wake the kids, but I slam my fist into the wall, regardless, needing an outlet.
Fuck calm. Fuck trying. Fuck letting go even for five minutes. It’s not working. Reality always comes back and screws me over.
I should never have let her walk into my house and my life. Deep in my gut I knew it from the start. She’s not Emma, but I fucking want her, and she tugs at heartstrings I thought were dead and gone.
But that’s not an issue anymore. I just bet that after tonight, after I left her naked in my kitchen and walked out, she’s never coming back.
And why the hell does the thought feel like a punch to my gut? She’d be right not to. It’d only be fair.
By the time I finally give up on sleep and head back downstairs to grab a stiff drink and my smokes, she’s gone from the kitchen. From the house.
It’s so damn empty.
My face hurts from the punch Ross gave me. My head aches. My heart smarts.
All par for the course. No use complaining.
And who would I complain to, huh? Suck it up, Matt. Reality, remember?
My thoughts chase each other, and I’m starting to work myself into a panic about tomorrow.
If Octavia is a no show, what will I do with the kids? Drop them off at Dolly’s again? They hate it there, and Dolly—or Holly?—doesn’t have time for them. Doesn’t really care, and that’s the goddamn truth.
Not like Octavia does. My kids… I’ve never seen them as happy as since Octavia started looking after them. They don’t cry so much. They eat their food. They laugh more. And Mary’s night terrors have become less frequent.
Why was I so damn stupid and I went at Octavia like a bull on steroids, without asking first? Without thinking. She’s just eighteen, for fuck’s sake. Should I have guessed she was a damn virgin?
Emma hadn’t been at her age. Loads of girls aren’t.
She said she wanted it, a little voice whispers in the back of my mind. Wanted you.
Yeah, and now she sure is regretting it. If she thought fucking her would change me, change what I’ve become…