The Nanny Affair

CHAPTER 12

Emily's pov

I knew something was wrong the moment I woke up.

Not because the house was loud.

Not because Sophia was already awake.

But because the house felt occupied in a way it usually did not at this hour.

Matteo was home.

Not asleep.

Not rushing out.

Present.

I dressed slowly, choosing something simple and appropriate, though my hands hesitated longer than necessary at the buttons. By the time I stepped into the hallway, I could already hear voices drifting up from downstairs. Sophia’s laughter. A deeper voice beneath it. Calm. Amused.

His.

When I reached the kitchen, the sight of him stopped me short.

Matteo stood by the counter in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, a coffee mug in his hand. No jacket. No tie. He looked nothing like the man who left for work every morning with precision and distance. This Matteo belonged to the house. To the morning light spilling across marble and glass.

Sophia sat on a stool beside him, swinging her legs.

“Emily,” she chirped when she saw me. “Papa is staying home today.”

My heart skipped in a way I did not approve of.

“That so?” I said, forcing lightness into my tone as I moved closer.

Matteo’s eyes lifted to me.

“Yes,” he said. “I decided to take the day.”

He watched me carefully as he spoke, as though gauging my reaction mattered more than the decision itself.

“For Sophia,” he added after a beat.

Of course it was.

Sophia clapped her hands. “We’re having breakfast together.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said.

But my body had already gone tense.

The morning unfolded slowly. Too slowly. Matteo stayed in the kitchen while I cooked. He did not retreat to his office. Did not disappear behind closed doors. He leaned against the counter and spoke to Sophia, asking about her lessons, her friends, her spelling practice. He listened. Truly listened.

And every so often, his attention drifted back to me.

Not openly.

Not obviously.

But enough that I felt it.

When I reached for a plate, our fingers brushed.

Just once.

The contact was brief and accidental and yet my breath caught like I had been touched with intention. His hand stilled for a fraction of a second before he withdrew.

“I’ve got it,” he said quietly, taking the plate from me.

Our eyes met.

Something unspoken passed between us.

Sophia did not notice. She was busy telling her father about a story she had written at school. Matteo listened with a faint smile, but his gaze flicked back to me once more.

As if he were cataloguing something.

After breakfast, Sophia dragged us both into the garden. Matteo followed instead of excusing himself. He watched as I helped her with her drawings, as I laughed at her dramatic storytelling, as I tied her hair when it fell loose.

I could feel him watching.

Not judging.

Studying.

At one point, Sophia ran inside to get her coloring book.

The quiet that followed was heavy.

Matteo stood beside me now, close enough that I could sense his warmth. I did not turn. I did not step away.

“You’re very good with her,” he said.

“Children respond to patience,” I replied.

“And sincerity,” he added.

I glanced at him then.

His expression was unreadable, dark eyes steady on my face.

“You make it difficult,” he continued, his voice a low vibration in the space between us, “to remember professional boundaries.”

My pulse thundered in my ears, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden silence. Every instinct screamed to step back, to create distance. I remained rooted to the spot.

Instead, I moved forward.

My hand came to rest softly on the solid plane of his chest, and I leaned into the gravitational pull of him. Our lips met, and the world dissolved into a kiss of pure, hungry desperation. He kissed me as if drawing sustenance, as if I were both oxygen and flame. His hands mapped a fevered path from my face, down the column of my throat, to trace the desperate curves of my body. When his mouth left my lips to blaze a trail down my neck, his teeth grazing a sensitive spot, a broken moan escaped me. Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through my veins.

He guided me onto the garden table, the forgotten scatter of Sophia’s crayons biting into my back a fleeting, irrelevant protest. Nothing mattered but the heat of his hands unbuttoning my shirt, his thumbs circling my pebbled n*****s, his mouth still working that same spot on my neck until I was sure it would bear his mark.

His mouth abandoned my skin as his hands slipped from my breasts, dipping beneath the waistband of my shorts. “What a dirty girl,” he whispered against my jaw, the words a dark caress. “So wet for me.” He parted me, and the first thrust of his finger stole my breath.

“Oh, God!” I cried out, my vision whitening at the edges.

“God isn’t the one pleasing you, darling,” he murmured, adding a second finger and setting a devastating rhythm. “Scream my name.”

I was lost, hips arching in a frantic, primal chase for the peak only he could bring me to. “Oh… Matteo… Matteo… Matt...!”

My world shattered into a supernova of sensation. My body bowed, spasming as release tore through me, leaving me weightless and trembling. As the waves subsided, he withdrew his soaked fingers and brought them to his lips. “Hai un sapore così buono, piccola donna,” he growled, his eyes holding mine.

You taste so good, little woman.

I didn’t need a translation. The sinful promise in his tone was clear. And with it, crashing down in the wake of that physical high, came the violent tide guilt, shame, a searing embarrassment that burned through the aftermath of pleasure.

“I’m baaackkk!” Sophia’s sing-song voice floated from the house, innocent and piercing as a shard of glass.

The spell ruptured. I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t possibly meet her eyes. I scrambled off the table, my clothes in disarray, and ran. I flew past everything, up to my room, with no thought but escape, the echo of my own scream still hanging in the air behind me.

I shut the door behind me, but the silence did nothing to calm my racing thoughts.

My body still remembered his hands. My lips still tingled. And worse, my heart was betraying me, thudding with a hope I had no right to entertain.

I paced the room, pressing my palms together like that might somehow ground me. This was not who I was supposed to be. I was here for a reason. For answers. For survival. For Sophia.

Not this.

A knock came again, softer this time.

“Emily.”

My name on his lips did things it had no business doing.

I opened the door slowly.

Matteo stood there, shirt loosened now, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his forearms. His expression was controlled but his eyes were not. They were dark, intent, burning with everything he was refusing to say.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The air between us was thick, charged, heavy with what had almost gone too far and what still wanted to.

“You ran,” he said quietly.

“I panicked,” I replied just as softly.

His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, then back to my eyes. That tiny movement sent a shiver through me. He noticed. I saw it in the tightening of his jaw.

“That was not what I intended,” he said. “I would never put you in a position where you felt cornered.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “That’s not why I ran.”

“Then why.”

Because I liked it too much.

Because I wanted him.

Because wanting him scared me more than anything else.

“I can’t do this,” I said, forcing the words out before I could lose my nerve. “Not because I don’t feel it. But because I do.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

“I am your employee,” I continued. “You are Sophia’s father. And I am here for a reason that has nothing to do with falling for someone who could change my entire life with one decision.”

His eyes softened then, something unguarded flickering through them.

“You think I don’t understand restraint,” he said. “Emily, everything about me is restraint.”

He stepped closer, stopping just short of touching me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth. Close enough that my resolve wavered.

“But attraction does not disappear because it is inconvenient,” he added.

“I don’t want to hurt Sophia,” I said, my voice breaking slightly. “She trusts me. She needs stability. And I don’t want to become another complication in her life.”

At that, something shifted in him. Respect. Appreciation. Maybe even admiration.

“That,” he said quietly, “is exactly why you matter to me.”

My chest tightened.

He lifted a hand, hesitated, then gently brushed his knuckles against my wrist. Barely there. A question more than a touch.

“We are adults,” he said. “We will not pretend this didn’t happen. But we will also not let it damage what matters.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

“This stays between us,” I said. “And we slow down.”

His thumb pressed lightly once against my skin before he let go.

“For now,” he said.

“For now,” I echoed.

He took a step back, then stopped. His control slipped just enough for me to see it. The way his gaze softened. The way his jaw tightened, like leaving was costing him something.

“Emily,” he said quietly.

Before I could respond, he stepped forward again.

His hand came up, cupping my cheek with careful restraint, like he was afraid of taking too much. His thumb brushed once against my skin, slow and deliberate, sending a shiver straight through me.

Then he kissed me.

Just once.

Soft. Brief. Controlled.

But God, it carried everything he had not said. Want. Promise. Danger.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine for a heartbeat.

“This does not change what you mean in this house,” he murmured. “Or what you are to Sophia.”

My breath shook. “And what am I to you?”

His lips curved faintly, not a smile, but something intimate. Something honest.

“That,” he said, stepping away, “is the part we will take our time with.”

He turned and walked down the hallway, leaving me standing there with my hand still pressed to my cheek, my heart racing, my resolve dangerously unsteady.

I closed my door slowly.

I had come here for answers.

I had come here to survive.

I had not come here to fall for my boss.

But as I slid down against the door, my lips still burning from the ghost of his kiss, I knew one thing with terrifying certainty.

Matteo Rinaldi already knew exactly how to undo me.