Chapter 23: I Can't
Chapter 23: I Can't
POV Abraham
The sound of her moans was still echoing in my head. Low, urgent, sweet. A fucking sinful melody. Her mouth was still on mine—hot, soft, slick with the taste of the pleasure I had just pulled from her minutes ago. And I wanted more.
Hell, I wanted everything.
Our bodies were pressed together, my skin prickled with heat, my cock hard and throbbing inside my briefs, begging for release. She was grinding against me—so open, so willing—her legs still wrapped around my waist, her pussy warm and wet against me. Her lips brushed my jaw, my nose, my neck, and her voice came out in desperate whispers:
“Please, Abraham… please…”
That sound? It was the damn match.
A low, guttural groan tore from my throat and my hands gripped her thighs, pulling her tighter. I could feel how wet she was, even through the thin fabric separating us. I was losing my mind over this woman. Her hands slid up my chest, nails biting into me, her wide eyes locked on mine.
And that’s when the fucking switch flipped.
I stopped.
Pulled back like I’d just taken a bullet to the chest. Like a bucket of ice water had dumped over my head, snapping everything back into place.
Celeste’s eyes opened, blinking fast, her cheeks flushed, her swimsuit tugged out of place, damp hair stuck to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered, voice shaking.
My body was still burning, my cock still aching, but I stepped back.
“This…” My voice came out too deep, too ragged. “This shouldn’t be happening.”
Her eyes went wide. She immediately tugged her swimsuit back into place, closing her legs like she’d been caught doing something shameful.
“Did I do something wrong?”
No.
Fuck, no.
“It’s because I’m the nanny,” she rushed on, her words tripping over each other. “I’m sorry, Mr. De Montreal, I... I shouldn't have—I—”
“Shut up.” My voice sliced through the air between us.
She froze.
I took another step back, dragging my palm through the heated pool water. Took a deep breath, trying to get my shit together.
“This isn’t about you, Celeste. It’s about me.”
She bit her lip, folding her arms across her chest.
“I just… I thought you wanted it.” Her voice was so soft, it hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.
“I do,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “Jesus, I want it so damn bad.”
“But you stopped.” She said it like it broke something inside her.
“Because I have kids,” I said, and the words burned. “Because I’m your boss, and because…”
Because I ruin everything I touch.
Because the last woman who shared my bed was murdered.
She lowered her eyes. A single drop of water fell from her hair and broke the surface between us.
“And because you deserve more,” I finished.
She frowned, her eyes glassy again.
“More than what, Abraham?” she asked.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
How could I tell her the scent of her skin drove me insane? That my mind wouldn’t stop imagining her wrapped around me in bed, her hair sprawled across the pillows? That every curve of her body made me forget who I was, what I did, what I fought for?
And I needed to remember.
I’m Abraham De Montreal.
Father of two kids who lost their mother because of me.
An agent with a mission in two days.
A man with enough enemies to turn anyone I care about into collateral damage.
She couldn’t be part of that.
I couldn’t drag her into my world.
I watched her expression harden. Watched the shame creep in, the awkwardness, the way she hugged herself and looked down at the water.
“This won’t happen again,” I said finally. “Forget it ever did.”
She nodded, barely. So small it was almost invisible.
And then I left the pool in silence. I didn’t look back. I didn’t say another word. Because if I looked again—I’d go back.
And if I went back… I wouldn’t stop.
I walked away, every muscle tight, body burning. Went inside and headed straight for my bedroom. Slammed the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing hard, trying not to lose my goddamn mind.
But it was too late.
She was already under my skin.
On my lips.
All over my fucking body.
I hated myself for it—for letting it get that far, for touching her like that, for almost losing control.
Fucking Celeste.
I threw the balaclava on the floor, yanked off my soaked underwear, and stormed into the bathroom. I turned the shower to the coldest setting I could stand, but it didn’t help.
Her scent was still on my face.
The image of her on the edge of the pool—swimsuit pushed aside, legs spread, soft moans caught in her throat—
I groaned and slammed my fist against the tile. The water poured over me, but the tension wouldn’t go away.
My hand moved without thinking. And before I could talk myself out of it, I was stroking myself, fast, desperate, like I could erase everything that happened.
It didn’t work.
I came hard with a strangled groan, my forehead pressed against the wet wall. My body trembled, but my mind was still chaos. Still spinning.
It wasn’t enough.
Nothing would be.
I stepped out, dried off on autopilot. Threw on some clothes and went to the closet where I kept my go-bag.
The mission was in a few hours and God, I needed to get out of that house.
Packed in silence, forcing focus. Focus, Abraham. Work. Survival.
In the kitchen, I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note:
“Work trip. Back in a few days.”
Left it on the counter.
And without another thought, I walked out the back door.
It was still night.
Still dark.
And I had to lea
ve before I fucked up even more.