I had been the live-in nanny for the Carter family for eleven months, and every single day I went to bed wet.
They were beautiful. All of them. Marcus Carter—tall, broad, skin like polished ebony, voice deep enough to vibrate in my cunt when he spoke. His son Malik, twenty-two, home from college for the summer, built like he spent every free hour in the gym, with a smile that made my knees weak. And Naomi, Marcus’s wife, elegant, sharp-tongued, with the kind of curves that made me stare too long when she walked through the kitchen in her silk robes.
I was the pale, quiet white girl who folded their laundry and packed school lunches for the younger kids. The one who smiled politely and kept her eyes down. The one who had a secret folder on her phone full of the filthiest BBC porn she coul
