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One Bride for Three Single Dads
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Three s*xy single das changed my life. And not the way you might think.
Being a nanny was never on my bucket list.
This is a steamy standalone 55,000 word novel with a HEA, and no cheating!
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“Okay, just pull the diaper up and close the tabs.”
Ambrose gives me a lopsided grimace of concern.
“She isn’t going to wake up, I promise,” I reassure him, letting my hand fall over his in a swift but electric moment of contact.
It is just an excuse, and I know it. But still, it’s undeniable that it totally just happened.
And from the look on his face, he probably realizes I did it on purpose. And he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, just like that,” I smile, hoping my face isn’t turning into a bright-red sign of embarrassment and lust.
“But what if she wakes up?” he whispers.
Reluctantly I pull my hand away, relishing the velvety feel of his sunburned arm hairs under the pads of my fingers.
“Look! You’re done!” I point out.
Obediently, he looks down, surprised for the millionth time to see his five-month-old daughter, Harmony, sleeping like a little angel. Her brown ringlets curl sweetly over her round forehead, and her perfect little mouth is slightly open as she breathes. She is so deeply asleep, her eyelids are practically transparent and blue.
I glance at his face again; I can’t help it. That look he gets when he stares at her, when all his usual tough guy attitude evaporates and he is just a loving father staring at his beautiful little girl…
What can I say? I am a sucker for a good daddy.
“Okay, let’s just let her sleep,” I suggest, resting my palm against his T-shirt and shoving him gently toward the door.
I can feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric. The smell of his after-work skin is driving me completely nuts.
The muscles of his construction-worker arms flex beautifully as he opens the door for me, just out of habit. It’s his house, and he still opens doors for me.
Well… It’s their house. All three of them.
“Do you need to check on Cole?” he asks softly as he closes the door behind us.
I shake my head no, then remember to say the word out loud in my best nanny whisper. “No. He’s got another forty-five minutes or so before his nap is up.”
Cole is four years old and currently sleeping behind the next door we pass in the short hallway of bedrooms that the kids use. He has a very predictable schedule. Forty-five minutes left. For sure.
I can’t take my eyes off of Ambrose as he walks slightly ahead of me, just a bit slower than I would expect.
Absolutely gorgeous. And the house is so quiet right now, I can hear him breathing, an almost animal sound that ramps up my sense of distraction and lust.
“So, it’s just us then,” he says almost to himself as we emerge in the expansive den/game room.
I can’t help but glance over to the hallway on the opposite side of the room. The one that leads back to their bedrooms.
As soon as I do that, I see his eyes track mine. He is thinking it too. I know he is.
“So, do you have anything else you need to do?” he continues, clearing his throat.
He is so close to me now, I can see his pulse throbbing in the vein below his jaw. So teasingly close that all I need to do is stumble a little bit forward…
“I don’t want to keep you,” he murmurs.
All right, I can’t take it anymore.
I just make that final step toward him, the one that crosses the invisible gulf that has separated us ever since they hired me to be their live-in nanny. Just a cellophane-clear envelope of safety that surrounded all of us, which kept me from climbing any one of my bosses like the sturdy, sexy trees that they are.
I cross that threshold just as he reaches out to catch me. He bends down and our trajectories collide, crushing our mouths together.
Every cell in my body is screaming in celebration as our mouths slide over each other, churning against a built-up lust that we finally decided to let break through the walls. Finally, after a ridiculous amount of breathless anticipation, I have his tongue on mine.
I fold against him, letting myself go weak in his rock-hard arms as his tongue twists its way into my mouth. He tastes salty and sunburnt, like someone who has spent the whole day in the Tennessee mountain air swinging a hammer.
My hands slide up his arms, hungry for each next inch of skin that I can finally know more closely. This is all going right in my catalog. This may be our only chance, and I want to remember every single bit of it.
His muscles throb underneath me, tense from what I think is still physical restraint. He is holding back. I can feel the animal power of his body as my fingers pluck the hem of his T-shirt, urging it up, eager to pull it free of his body.