4 – The ‘VIT’ is for Fuck Yeah

SPOV

Leaving Captain Scrub-A-Dub-Dub to finish cleaning up the kitchen – at his insistence, I wasn’t a completely ungrateful bitch – I grabbed Jay and a warmed up bottle to take him with me out into the living room.

But not before taking one last second to enjoy the show.

The way his back muscles worked underneath his shirt was a sight to behold. I hadn’t noticed before – what with not being robbed and Mario Batali not in my kitchen – but I couldn’t blame the baby for liking the view from up there.

The one from down here wasn’t too shabby either.

Hella hot.

Shaking the thought free, I turned and forced myself to leave the room before I did something I would regret. Getting all hot and bothered over Captain He Actually Whistles While He Works wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors.

Granted, all of the previous nannies had still been in relatively good spirits on day one and hadn’t run for the hills the moment I’d gotten home. But happy and he knew it or not, I wasn’t about to clap my hands and jinx it.

There was something different about him though.

Better.

I couldn’t put my finger on it. But then again, I was having a difficult time not fantasizing about putting a hell of a lot more than my finger on him.

A hell of a lot more.

Smushing my lips against Jason’s downy covered head in the hopes it would stop me from belting out a few bars of John Legend’s All of Me song, I whispered, “I told you I would do better.”

My little cutie patootie certainly deserved better than having me for a mom, so I needed to curb my crush on Captain Do Me Don’t Sue Me before he made like a tree and got the hell out of our dodgy lives.

Jay didn’t have a father figure at all. In fact, the only man to ever hold him had been his pediatrician. I wanted that for him and given the way he’d immediately taken to Captain Cuddles, the last thing I wanted was for me to ruin it for him by losing control of myself.

I could keep myself from playing knock-knock and pushing my knockers in Captain Color Me Surpised’s face, no matter how much I wanted to knock him over and knock boots with him.

Probably.

No, no…I could.

For Jason, I would.

Decision made, I made my way to the couch and balanced the bottom end of Jason’s bottle against my chin to keep it in his mouth, so I could use my free hand to pull out the briefs I needed to go over for trial the next day.

It was a balancing act I had perfected over the last six months.

Maneuvering my ass onto the couch cushion and hoping he would go to sleep without putting up a fuss, I was just reaching for the folder on top of the pile when I heard, “Are you working or babying?”

Oh baby…

The sound of his voice…

Well, it shouldn’t be legal. But it was.

I went to law school and everything, so I knew it for a fact.

Swallowing the want – that wanted so many things, quite frankly – I only glanced over at him and let out a questioning, “Yes?”

I mean, there was no question I was working. And there was no question, I was telling him yes to more than just that. But both were a touchy subject and I wasn’t about to touch either one of them.

Not even with the ten foot pole he probably had in his pants.

What?

I was allowed to imagine.

John Lennon said so.

But one of the main complaints from the previous seven hundred and fifty-three nannies was that I worked too much.

And their concern wasn’t for my wellbeing.

But because I spent such long hours at the office, they then had to spend that many hours taking care of Jason. I always tried to compensate them well to make up for the extra work and at times, had even considering hiring a second nanny. But I couldn’t keep one nanny for any length of time.

How in the hell would I manage keeping two of them around?

By my rough calculations, that would mean Jason would be on his fifteen hundred and seventh nanny by now.

But seven hundred and fifty-four must have been the magic number because just as I was about to assure him that I could handle Jason – thereby leaving him free to go and be sexy somewhere else – he plucked the baby from my arms.

It wasn’t fair.

The panties I was wearing were freshly washed, thank you very much.

It would be a shame to mess up all of his hard work, when his work would be the only hard thing anywhere near my penis fly trap.

But before I could embarrass myself and let my Audrey II loose from the cotton little shop of horrors encasing my lower half, he upped the ante by plopping down on the couch next to me and grinning, “Nope.”

There was room enough for Jesus to be sitting in between us, but that didn’t keep my mind from wandering to less than holy thoughts.

Because seeing that smirk on his face, now all I wanted to do was sit. On. His. Face.

So I tried to keep my own from betraying me, by cocking my brow at him and asking, “Really, Clark?”

He certainly was putting me in mind of Superman right about then.

I even had a pink fortress of solitude ready and waiting for him.

“Nope,” he repeated with a grin.

Yeah…I was thinking the same thing.

One, because he really didn’t look like a Clark. Or a Kent.

And two, didn’t I just say – internally, at least – that I wasn’t going to try and go down that road?

But three, because the bottle – the nine ounce baby bottle, roughly nine inches long – disappeared in his giant hand.

Dis. A. Ppeeeaaarrred…

Nope. To all of it.

I needed to stop thinking about any of it and not only because my panties were no longer as fresh as a daisy.

But Jason needed him. And I needed him for my son, more than I needed to know if what they said was true about men having big hands.

And big feet, I added internally when my eyes glanced down at his.

So I needed to stop thinking about the fact, if it weren’t for the little piggy sounds coming from Jason sucking down his formula like his life depended on it – which, I supposed, it sort of did in a way – I never would’ve known the bottle was there.

And I needed to stop wondering what other magic tricks those hands could do.

Really.

Like right now. Or better yet, five minutes ago.

Was it hot in here?

“So what are you working on, if you don’t mind me asking…Miranda?” he smiled.

“Nope,” I grinned, thankful for the distraction. “But bonus points to you for whipping out a Sex and the City reference.”

Why, oh why, brain?

Why put the words whipping and sex in the same sentence?

And before I could beg, borrow, or plead for him to whip something else out – or tell him he could trade those points in for a forever day pass to explore my cave of wonders – I forced myself to answer his actual question with, “Briefs…”

But it seemed keeping my mind out of the gutter was an impossible feat with him sitting so close because it dug deeper into the cesspool that was my brain and added, “There are always briefs to go through.”

Because all I could think about now was going through his.

Briefs or boxers.

Oooohh…or maybe boxer briefs.

Enquiring minds wanted to know. Surely it was worthy of one of my nine lives.

And besides, he’d seen mine. It was only fair he show me his.

Susan B. Anthony would want him to and the sixty-ninth amendment said so.

Or rather, it would.

When. I. Wrote. It.

Not knowing we would one day be changing the legal foundation of our country together, Captain Constitution just glanced at my never ending pile of work and shrugged before reaching down and producing an open bag of cheese curls he set down in the spot meant for Jesus.

“Aww…Cheetos,” I whined in mourning and then playfully glared at him when I added, “No fair, Chester.”

“Nope,” he smirked and then pushed the bag closer to me, saying, “Eat them. I bought them with your money, Annie Warbucks.”

“Nope,” I replied, more sad than smug.

And not just because the Annie Warbucks struck closer to home than he knew.

But because Cheetos!

And because he looked more confused than anything else, I held up the papers in my hand and explained, “My co-counsel will have a cow, if I leave cheesy fingerprints on these.”

Bill was old school.

Like he’d been around to take Susan B. Anthony to the prom or cotillion or whatever they had back when they had to shit in outhouses, old school.

Never mind that he was only about ten years older than me.

EPOV

Seeing how forlorn she looked, I figured it was a good time to burp the baby anyway, so I stood up and put him over my shoulder, while I headed into the kitchen.

Rooting around in the drawer I’d placed them in, I came back into the room and sat back down, using one of the wooden skewers I’d picked up for making shish kabobs to stab a cheese curl and presented it to her.

If she didn’t already have a grill hidden away somewhere, she would soon because I would buy that bad boy myself.

Me man.

Me cook with fire.

Argh argh argh…

“Fuck yeah, stabby sticks,” she laughed, while reaching out and taking it from me, just as she said, “You sure are handy to have around, what with your endless supply of MacGyver magic sticks.”

I had another magic stick she was more than welcome to have.

In her hand or anywhere else on her body she wanted it to be.

Stop. It.

But ever since she’d mentioned – or I’d imagined her mentioning – her unmentionables, I couldn’t stop myself from mentally cataloging every pair I knew she owned.

I would know.

I’d washed them all.

So was she wearing black lace right now?

Pink satin, perhaps?

Or was Batman’s logo currently on display across her ass?

She had an oddly sexy collection of cotton boy shorts, with comic logos on them ranging from said do-gooder Gotham billionaire to blue ones with Captain America’s shield stamped across the backside.

Come to think of it, she also had red ones with Iron Man’s arc reactor and a green pair proclaiming, ‘Hulk Smash!’ on the ass.

It was giving me ideas about whether or not she wanted to check out the Thor’s hammer in my pants.

Her collection wouldn’t be complete without it.

Stop. It.

Shoving a cheese curl into my mouth to keep me from embarrassing myself turned out to be the exact opposite of what I should’ve done because she chose that moment to say, “So, about your package.”

Bits of orange Cheetos flew out of my mouth, while the rest of it tried to choke me to death.

Something the baby seemed to find funny, seeing him grinning around the nipple in his mouth, as he stared up at the idiot having Very Inappropriate Thoughts about his mother.

His mother who also seemed to find it funny, given the calculating smile on her face, when she knowingly said, “You know, the one Pam sent you? For your employment?”

“Uh huh,” I coughed out.

Sure.

Totally the package I was thinking about.

Not.

And because God hated me, she went on to ask, “Is it okay?”

Why don’t you come and see for yourself?

Stop. It.

If I didn’t know any better I might think she was flirting with me.

But she wasn’t.

Right?

Cookie seemed friendly enough and she had a great sense of humor, so I was just reading into things.

Right?

But unable to not address the decidedly wicked grin she was wearing, I stared back her with my own knowing expression and challenged, “Just what are you asking me, Pandora?”

“Well, I do declare, Mr. Beauregard,” she laughed haughtily and fanned her face with the papers in her hand.

Raising her eyebrow at my automatic, “Nope,” she only looked back at me and asked with a faked Ace-Ventura-faking-Scarlett-O’Hara-like accent, “Are you, sir, calling my box evil?”

Well, there was a reason why the satanic ram’s head was the same shape as the female reproductive system.

But instead of kicking that nest of bees, I only started the slow wind up to kick myself in the balls, when I heard myself say, “I don’t even know what to call you yet.”

And then because I’d obviously been possessed by a demonic spirit, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from adding, “Once I get that down, then I’ll work on what I’ll be calling your box.”

Holy. Shit.

Did. That. Actually. Come. Out. Of. My. Mouth?

The blue eyeballs popping out of her head told me yes.

Yes, those words did come out of my mouth.

And because aliens had very clearly taken control of my brain and mouth, instead of apologizing for the Very Inappropriate Things I’d just said, I only piled it on by ending with, “You started it.”

Please…for the love of all that is holy…

STOP! IT!

No longer able to withstand her bulging baby blues, I stared down at the baby in my arms, giving him a silent farewell.

It’s been nice knowin’ ya kid.

Because I was so fired after this.

But instead of stabbing me with her ‘stabby stick’ – like I expected and which was fully warranted – I only heard her say, “So, do you feel up to going down and getting your sexy?”

I was hallucinating.

I had to be.

The lack of blood flowing to my brain would be a legitimate cause for that.

Forcing my eyes upward, hers had taken on a completely innocent look. If it weren’t for the slight smirk of her lips, I might have pretended to believe it.

And her next words proved just how evil she was, when she tilted her head at me and clarified, “Your bike? That’s what you called it.”

Licking her lips, my eyes were then glued to her mouth, allowing me to see the slight movement as she swallowed and said, “Your sexy.”

Wait.

‘Your’, as in ‘mine’?

Or ‘you’re’, as in ‘I am’?

Or rather, ‘you are’.

Or whatever the fucking fucking fuck.

Fuck.

Goddamn it all to hell.

Shaking my head at the game she was playing – only because she was winning – I stood up and said, “Sure, Eve.”

She was leading me into temptation, so it seemed fitting.

And seeing the ‘nice try’ look on her face, I knew I was also still losing.

At least her next guess wasn’t any better – even if it did go hand in hand with mine – when she rose up from the couch and blinked innocently at me, saying way too brightly to be real, “Okay, Adam.”

I wasn’t pouting in my seat next to her as we drove all the way back to pick up my bike.

I wasn’t.

I was plotting.

So maybe I was pouting that my plotting wasn’t working because every little dirty innuendo I could come up with about bikes didn’t pass the test.

Saying something about having a beast between my legs?

That only made me think of the last nanny and would probably do the same for her, which was decidedly not sexy.

Thanks Pam.

Just for that I would make shit up to tell our mom about her and get her in trouble.

So maybe I was pouting a little – a miniscule amount, really – by the time we pulled up next to my bike. She had driven us, so we didn’t have to change seats, and not wanting to acknowledge I’d been beaten in the Very Inappropriate Verbal Warfare game we’d been playing, I turned to check on the baby and said, “He’s asleep.”

Then turning to check on my baby, my eyes trailed over the shiny chrome, while I gave voice to my next thought by saying, “I should probably buy a car.”

Not that I was about to get rid of my bike, but with winter being a factor in my life now, I would’ve needed one regardless of there being a baby to factor into the equation.

Her baby.

Not my baby.

But like today, there would be times when I would need to run errands and sharing her SUV wouldn’t be practical.

Since she hadn’t said anything, I turned to look at her. I wasn’t expecting anything really, so I don’t know why I was so surprised at what I found.

I caught her just as her eyes darted back and forth between me and the bike. And given the way her lips were parted and her pupils were blown wide, I could guess at what she was thinking about.

Very Inappropriate Things.

So if I had a small smirk when I got out of the SUV, it was fully warranted.

Taking the lead in the Very Inappropriate Verbal Warfare game we were playing, without uttering a single word left me feeling a little smug.

And that smugness only grew, when after I’d climbed on the bike and started the engine, I turned to look back at her, just as I was about to pull on my helmet.

The look on her face said she wanted to do Very Inappropriate Things to me.

But even if I was just imagining it, that didn’t stop me from feeling some of her ‘stabby stick’ delight from earlier.

Because fuck yeah.