Back-Arching Bargain

Working as a live-in nanny wasn’t my grand life plan, but it paid decently and let me save up for a cross-country road trip I’d been dreaming about since high school.

Taking care of a four-year-old boy was manageable—messy, sure, but nothing I couldn’t handle. The real headache was navigating his parents, particularly Jake, a 48-year-old contractor with a gravelly voice and a habit of keeping things professional—until he didn’t.

I’d landed the gig through a friend of a friend who knew his wife from yoga class. For nearly a year, it was textbook: regular schedule, cash in hand, polite nods in the hallway. But Jake had this way of staring — quiet, intense — that always left a weird knot in my chest.

It was a chilly October evening in 2024 when his wife got called out of town for a family emergency. Jake was stuck late on a job site, so they begged me to stay overnight. I’d had plans to meet a buddy for drinks, but I caved — extra pay’s hard to turn down. Still, I was simmering by the time the kid finally passed out.

The house was still, just the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of settling wood. I was sprawled on the sectional, half-watching a true crime doc on my tablet, legs kicked up, when I heard the crunch of gravel outside. Jake had warned me he’d be late, texted some apology about traffic, promised a fat tip. I’d shot back a curt, – Fine, – already counting the minutes till I could crash in the guest room.

The door swung open, and his scent hit me first — cedar and sawdust, baked into his flannel and skin from a day swinging hammers. I flicked my eyes up without moving. Dark green Henley stretched over his broad chest, worn jeans hugging his thighs, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder, stubble shadowing his jaw. He scrubbed a hand through his dark hair and gave me a tired grin.

• You’re a lifesaver, Tessa, – he said, dropping his keys on the hall table. – I owe you big for this.
• Yeah, well, he’s asleep, so it’s not total chaos, – I replied, shifting to sit up straighter.

Jake ambled to the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and cracked it open. He leaned against the counter, took a long pull, and watched me over the bottle.

• Want one? Unwind a little?
• I’m good. Long day. Just wanna sleep soon.
• One won’t kill you.

I bristled. Pushiness was a pet peeve. He clocked my expression and smirked, undeterred.

• Had you on my mind all day, – he said.
• That so? – I muttered, eyes back on my screen.
• Yeah. Got me so worked up I had to rub one out in the truck.

My fingers froze on the tablet. I looked up, sharp.

• Excuse me?
• You heard me, – he said, voice steady, casual. – Jerked off thinking about you.

Shock hit first, then rage. I could’ve slapped him, bolted, called him out. Instead, I stood, fists clenched, and jabbed a finger at his chest.

• You’re a pig!

He didn’t budge, just held my gaze.

• Chill, – he said, low and even. – You’re hot as hell. Not exactly breaking news.
• Do you even realize how messed up that is?
• Sure do.
• You’ve got a wife, you jackass!
• And you’ve got a body that won’t quit.
• Go to hell!

I turned, grabbed my hoodie off the couch, and stormed toward the stairs, heart slamming against my ribs. This wasn’t happening—not in this house, not with him. But as I passed, his hand shot out, catching my elbow, halting me mid-step.

• Don’t act like you don’t feel it, – he murmured.

I stood rigid, breath shallow, staring into his dark eyes.

• I said I got off thinking about you, – he continued, stepping in close. – But not the details.

His voice dropped, husky, his breath brushing my ear as he leaned in.

• Pictured you in that red sundress from last month, bent over the porch railing.

I swallowed, throat dry.

• You’re full of shit.
• Nope. Snapped a pic when you weren’t looking. Used it.

My skin prickled, anger mixing with something else.

• You’re a fucking creep…

He nudged me back against the wall, slow and deliberate, his frame towering.

• Don’t be mad, – he whispered, lips grazing my temple. – That dress clung to your ass like it was begging me to stare.

I remembered that day — hot, sticky, me watering plants outside. I should’ve pushed him off, cursed him out, left. But my pulse raced, legs locked, a heat blooming low in my belly.

• What if I tell someone?

He laughed, soft and dark.

• You won’t.
• Why not?
• ‘Cause you’re eating this up.

I glared, hating how my silence betrayed me. Then he pressed his hips forward, letting me feel him—rock-hard through his jeans.

• I wanna fuck you, Tessa, – he growled. – Name your price.
• You’re vile, – I spat.
• And you’re a goddamn knockout.

I didn’t answer, but I didn’t move when his calloused hands slid up my sides.

• Tell me to stop, – he said, fingers teasing the hem of my tank top. – Mean it, and I’m done.

I didn’t.

His grin widened. He bit my neck lightly, then shoved a hand down my leggings, rough fingertips finding me slick already.

• Knew it, – he rasped, smug. – Wet for me.

I gasped as he pushed two fingers inside, thick and insistent, curling against me. He gripped my ponytail, yanked my head back, and crashed his mouth into mine, all teeth and hunger.

• You gonna let me have you? Yes or no?

I shuddered, eyes fluttering shut.

• That’s a yes, – he decided. – Get down.

He released me, and I dropped to my knees, hands trembling as I fumbled with his belt. His jeans hit the floor, and there he was — hard, veined, throbbing, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. He tangled his fingers in my hair and pulled me forward.

• Open that pretty mouth, – he commanded.

I did, wide and willing, taking him slow at first — tongue swirling over the head, tasting salt and musk, lips stretching around his girth. He groaned, hips twitching, guiding me deeper until I gagged softly, saliva pooling, my hands braced on his thighs.

• Fuck, yes, – he hissed, voice wrecked. – Suck it like you mean it.

I did, hollowing my cheeks, bobbing faster, letting him hit the back of my throat. His grip tightened, controlling the pace, low moans spilling out as I worked him, messy and eager. Minutes blurred — five, ten? — until he hauled me up, eyes blazing.

• Enough, – he growled, spinning me to face the couch. – I need inside you.

He shoved me forward, bending me over the armrest, and ripped my leggings down with my underwear in one brutal tug. His hands spread my thighs wide, exposing me, and I felt the air cool against my dripping heat.

• Stay right there, – he ordered.

His tongue came first, hot and greedy, lapping at me from behind — long, firm strokes that made my knees buckle. He gripped my ass, spreading me wider, burying his face deeper, sucking my clit until I whined, nails digging into the upholstery.

• Goddamn, you taste good, – he mumbled against me, voice muffled, then plunged his tongue inside, fucking me with it, relentless.

I moaned, loud and broken, pushing back into him. He pulled away, stood, and I heard his belt clank as he lined himself up. Then he thrust in — hard, deep, stretching me full in one go. I cried out, the burn delicious, his thick cock splitting me open as he started pounding, hips slapping my ass with wet, rhythmic smacks.