The Wet Nurse

It was 9 p.m. when I stepped out of the shower, still dripping wet, not even having had time to slip into my nightgown before the bedroom door swung open.

A towering, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway. He wore a snug white tank top that clung to his muscular frame and loose cargo pants—the kind of outfit that screamed raw masculinity.

His dark, intense eyes locked onto me.

Following his gaze, I glanced down and immediately flushed crimson.

In my haste, I hadn’t properly secured the towel. Too much skin was exposed, and the white fabric clung damply to my body where water from my hair had soaked through.

For a young, virile man, this might as well have been an invitation.

Fumbling, I yanked the towel tighter around my chest and quickly changed the subject. "Hello, you must be Mr. Valdemar?"

"You’re the new wet nurse?"

His voice was deep, slightly rough—a rich baritone that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.

It was… unfairly attractive.

I kept my head lowered, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

Of all the ways to meet my employer for the first time, this had to be the most mortifying.

I could feel his scorching gaze raking over me, slow and deliberate, like molten lava.

My fingers clenched the edge of the towel as he stepped inside with effortless confidence, shutting the door behind him.

The air thickened with the overwhelming presence of raw masculinity.

I retreated step by step, my pulse erratic, unsure why the atmosphere had suddenly turned so charged.

My back hit the edge of the bed, and I sank onto the mattress, trapped.

Finally, he stopped advancing. His gaze shifted from my body to the space beside me.

It took me a second to realize what had caught his attention.

There, sprawled across the pristine white sheets, lay the lavender lingerie I’d just changed out of.

Having a stranger see my undergarments was beyond humiliating.