Forbidden Fruit

12. Bad girls who thirst over their boss don’t get to come

TWELVE

BAD GIRLS WHO THIRST OVER THEIR BOSS DON’T GET TO COME

W hen the car Mr Marquesi sent drops me at the house, the sight of his silhouette shrouded in darkness welcomes me on the front steps like an angel of doom. My doom.

Because what the hell do I think I’m doing here in this cosy studio that looks like no one has ever set foot in it, let alone a girl like me?

I shake my head to dispel the thoughts that I know belong to my aunt more than me.

Everything inside the pool house looks custom and fits the austerity and straightforwardness of Mr Marquesi, from the black marble countertop to the Smeg appliances, the bed with a memory foam mattress to the simple black Italian tiles in the bathroom. But I sense Mrs Marquesi in the details of the sheer aquamarine curtains and the plush matching sofa, along with the coffee table that looks like a piece of transparent glass thrown on top of fashion magazines, and the art that makes no sense displayed on the walls.

Unease creeps up my spine. It’s like I’m intruding on a place that’s not meant for me. I wasn’t rich growing up. My mother and I moved too often to hold on to anything material. I learned not to make friends and not to get attached to things and places. I vowed to do things differently when I grew up. Making my first friend in Jade is like keeping this small promise to myself. Even with this job… if I can keep it long enough, I’m creating a life for myself and proving to myself that I can achieve what I want.

Yet, being in such a luxurious space, feels alien. I don’t even want to take my things out of my suitcase just in case Mr Marquesi changes his mind.

Mr Marquesi is true to his word. He simply shows me around, hands me the key and disappears with a grunt and a promise to negotiate boundaries for the children again.

I sit on the comfortable sofa for a long time, looking around like I’m in a hotel room that’s much too nice for my measly budget. I walk around the small flat and touch the curtains, the sheets of the freshly made bed, all fabrics and surfaces. When my brain finally computes that this is my new reality and no one is going to pull me out of bed in the middle of the night, I slide into the soft cotton sheets of my new bed.

I toss and turn all night. Sleeping on my back feels uncomfortable despite it usually being my position of choice. On my side, a wave of nausea makes me heave and my front isn’t an option as I feel like I can’t breathe properly. I don’t have chamomile, so I can’t resort to tea to help me fall asleep. Instead, I turn to what has helped me always when I feel like ants are crawling over my skin.

I unroll the thin mat I use just so that I’m not on the cold tiled floor and sit, starting as I always do. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my heart rate to a normal rhythm. I don’t need a smartwatch to tell me it’s not beating normally. It never is.

But years of the same daily routine have created pathways in my brain and my nervous system slowly calms down until blood isn’t pounding in my ears anymore. I start with very slow movements. The goal is to release endorphins so I won’t go for a hard sequence. I already did that earlier tonight anyway.

I do a few stretches and rolls of my spine, leaning my body this way and that, twisting while on my back. I close my eyes and let my body take over like it always does when I’m on the mat.

An hour passes and I let my body rest in savasana, covering myself with the duvet I drag from the bed. I wake up at 7am, from my place on the mat by the sofa, curled up on myself like I did so many times in the past when my mother needed more rest than me, and took the bed in our room while I slept on the floor..

T he day with the kids passes agonisingly slowly. Mr Marquesi and I didn’t discuss telling them that I live on the property, so I keep quiet. They do a lot of talking anyway, eager to tell me about their weekend and spending Sunday evening with Mammona and Babbone . Their little eyes shine with a love so pure my heart squeezes. It’s always been just me and my mum, until it was just me. My father was apparently a one-night stand, so I never even looked for him.

I’m pacing the length of the small studio living room when a knock sounds on the door, and I jump. I didn’t think our conversation would happen here. And this late. I feel like a cornered animal who won’t be able to escape. At least, at the main house, I’d have the distance to protect me.

I open the door. Mr Marquesi’s imposing frame takes up the entire space, his khaki wide-legged pants and soft beige linen shirt make him look more casual but I’m not fooled.

I invite him in.

“I apologise, Miss Winfrey. Anton and Livia were,” he hesitates, “excited with the news of having you live on the property. It took a long time to calm them and get them ready for bed.”

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. He just looks tired. I take in the dark circles under his eyes and the set of his shoulders, high against his ears.

“That’s no problem. Would you like some chamomile tea?”

I had time to do some grocery shopping after I finished work earlier, but money is still tight, so I only bought the essentials, including this awful off-brand tea. But it was the cheapest option.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m not staying,” he says, voice unflinching and resolute, like spending too much time in my company is a stress he’d rather avoid.

My own shoulders deflate, but I paste a fake smile on my face.

“I do not, under any circumstances, want you to spend time outside of your working hours with us.”

His tone is harsh and final.

“Oh, okay. I didn’t know seeing me was such an issue for you.”

“It isn’t.” His answer comes sharp and contradictory.

I’m nauseous again, sweat forming at my temples.

“It’s what is best for the kids. I don’t want to confuse them. You’re their nanny, not their mother,” he says harshly.

That last comment heats my blood with anger.

“Mr Marquesi, with all due respect, you’re being an asshole on purpose right now. I’d never try to take Anton and Livia’s mother's place, and accusing me of it is unfair and unwarranted. I care deeply for them and I will stay out of your hair when I’m not working, but I’m basically your neighbour, so we will cross paths. Or am I supposed to stay inside as long as I live here? You offered me a place to stay. I didn't ask for it,” I exclaim. I speak a mile a minute, indignation loosening my tongue until I realise I called him an asshole and my hand lands across my mouth with a loud smack, my eyes turning to saucers.

Instead of rage or shock, Mr Marquesi’s brow is raised in… challenge? That can’t be right. His features have softened, and when he closes the space between us, he prowls towards me like a predator. It does things to my body that I don’t want to name. I take a small step back and hit the kitchen counter. He doesn’t crowd me, but I wish he did.

He keeps a reasonable distance but his smooth voice travels across my skin like smoke when he speaks, barely above a whisper. “Did you call me ‘an asshole’?”

“I… I… Yes. You’re being mean for no reason. I won’t invade your private space. I mean, this place has a lovely patio with fairy lights that are perfect for reading and I can walk around the mansion to go out into town and if I bring someone over, you won’t have to see. I’ll make sure you’ll be none the wiser.” I’m fucking rambling, embarrassing myself and I can’t do anything to stop it.

“Bringing someone over?” he repeats the words slowly, as if tasting them, his eyes molten and his tone almost threatening.

“Well, I only have one friend. Jade. You know her, of course. She might come over for dinner, maybe her boyfriend. I won’t let the kids see them if they do, I promise.”

“No guests except Jade. I want my children to be safe in their own home.”

I scoff. “You can’t do that. It’s my place.”

“Considering you’re not even paying rent yet, Miss Winfrey, I’d say it’s my place and you’re graciously staying in it.”

“Well, not for long.” I cross my arms on my chest petulantly. Mr Marquesi’s eyes dip briefly to my cleavage. Steadying myself, I point an accusing finger at him. “I’ve never accepted charity in my life, Mr Marquesi and you’re no exception. Thank you for letting me stay here until I find a suitable flat, but let me remind you again that you offered. I won’t let you walk all over me because I live and work here. Now, it’s getting late.”

I take the three steps that separates me to the front door and open it, dismissing him without another word.

Mr Marquesi stays silent, unmoving for what feels like a long minute, before he turns and leaves without a second glance. I exhale a sigh of relief as I close the door.

This did not go as planned.

I never planned on inviting Jade over, anyway. This isn’t my home, I don’t want to linger or act like it’s my place to do with as I wish. So why did I get so worked up? Goosebumps pebbles on my skin, and my heart is so loud in my chest, I fear it’ll jump out. Confrontation is always triggering for me, but it usually induces fear. Right now, it’s not fear coursing through my veins and I don’t know what to make of that.

Later that night, I’m tossing and turning in bed, again , molars grinding with frustration. I finally admit defeat, knowing sleep isn’t coming anytime soon and get up to find my suitcase so I can retrieve my purple wand.

Let it be charged.

There’s nothing like an orgasm to put me to sleep.

When I climb back into bed and remove my pyjama bottoms, I’m already wet. I circle my entrance with my fingers, easing them up to my clit, building arousal with slow and deliberate movements. Tension leaves my shoulders and I throw my head back, losing myself to my touch.

When I turn the vibrator on, I glide it over my breasts first, letting my body get accustomed to the sensation.

My back arches and a moan escapes my lips when the head reaches the apex of my thighs. I switch between putting it right on my clit and then to my swollen labia until I’m a writhing mess, ready to ignite.

The image of Mr Marquesi towering over me forms behind my closed eyelids. Except in my vision, he doesn’t stop at a safe distance away from me, but closes in on me until his breath dusts over my lips. I imagine his hand covering mine on the wand as he speaks, his voice sounding like sin. “Did you call me an asshole, zitella ?”

Guilt and shame creep into my fantasy, but I couldn’t stop if I wanted. My body is like a tight string ready to snap and I hold my breath, my orgasm close by.

“Bad girls don’t get to come, zitella ,” he says with the tiniest lift of his mouth.

My wand dies, and the vision fades.

“Nooo,” I whine and throw the indignant object back into the open suitcase.

I replace it with my fingers, but it’s no use. My clit is already buzzing with the vibrations of the toy and my hand won’t do. I turn my head and yell my frustration into the pillow as I give up.

Maybe it’s for the best. At least, I can say I didn’t come to thought of my boss whispering filthy things to my ears.