"Her job was to care for the child. But the real temptation slept across the hall."
Camila had seen it all distant wives, busy husbands, loveless mansions full of luxury and loneliness. But nothing had prepared her for the Davenports.
They hired her through an elite agency. Private interviews. Background checks. Even a binding non-disclosure agreement.
Camila was twenty-five, curvy, sharp-eyed, and good with kids. She'd never once broken the rules.
Until Mr. Davenport.
The moment she met him, she knew this wasn't just another live-in nanny job.
Julian Davenport was tall, dark-haired, and too young to be a billionaire. His wife, Clarisse, was cold and often away; charity events, gallery openings, yacht parties. Julian, however, worked from home. Always in his tailored shirts, sleeves rolled, voice smooth like aged scotch.
Camila stayed in the guest suite next to the nursery. Julian's office was directly across the hallway.
And every night, she heard things.
Grunts. Groans. The rhythmic sound of someone taking care of themselves.
It wasn't her place to wonder. But she did.
One night, after a rare wine-fueled dinner (Clarisse had canceled again), Camila helped put little Ava to bed and returned to the kitchen. She didn't expect Julian to still be up.
But there he was, shirt undone at the collar, nursing a drink by the island.
"You're incredible with her," he said.
Camila smiled politely. "Thank you, Mr. Davenport."
"Call me Julian."
There was a pause. A long, loaded silence.
"You know," he said, stepping closer, "you don't always follow the rulebook."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He leaned in. "You wore that dress at dinner knowing exactly how it would make me feel."
"You wore that robe on purpose," he said.
"I was going to bed."
"No bra. No slippers. You knew I'd be up." He reached out and brushed her collarbone. "Tell me I'm wrong."
She didn't.
Instead, she let him tilt her chin, let his mouth crash into hers like he'd been holding back for months. She gasped against his lips, hands grabbing his shoulders, his chest, his belt buckle. She could feel the heat between them building, unbearable.
He lifted her up and set her on the counter, the marble cold under her thighs as his fingers explored her like a man starved.
"This is wrong," she whispered, breathless.
"And that's why you're dripping," he murmured.
He knelt in front of her, pushing her thighs apart, inhaling her scent. "I've dreamed of this," he confessed, kissing the inside of her leg. "Of making the nanny lose control."
When his tongue slid over her folds, she nearly screamed. She arched, trembling as his hands gripped her hips, holding her in place while he licked, sucked, worshipped. When his finger slipped inside her, she clenched around it, panting his name like a curse.
"I can't Julian" she gasped.
"Yes, you can. Let go. Be bad for once."
When she came, it was hard and long and shuddering. He stood, kissed her deeply, and carried her to his room.
They didn't sleep much that night.
And in the morning, when she tiptoed back to her room, flushed and sore, she found a note on her pillow.
"Rule 1: Don't fall for the boss.
Rule 2: Don't fall asleep in his bed.
Rule 3: Break the rules again tonight." J.D.
Camila smiled.
Maybe it was time she wrote her own rulebook.