Six months ago, you moved into Clay Beresford’s apartment located in the exclusive Steinway Tower on West 57th Street in Manhattan. After working three years as a live-in private duty nurse in NYC, you have grown accustomed to living in luxury homes. But this apartment makes the others seem tawdry in comparison. You immediately fell in love with the polished hard-wood floors, thick Persian rugs, and the floor to 14-foot ceiling windows, which provide breathtaking, perfectly centered views of Central Park and the surrounding skyline.
You were hired by Mr. Beresford’s administrative assistant, Nora, the day after his heart transplant surgery. Nora possesses the classic blonde looks of a young Grace Kelly: she wears her hair in a perfect chignon, her make-up flawless. Standing nearly six feet tall in her red-bottom Louboutin heels, she is intimidating. Nora helped you move into Mr. Beresford’s residence while he was still in the hospital, recuperating. You were given the bedroom adjacent to his, so you could assist him at all hours as needed.
When interviewing you, Nora asked if you had heard anything unusual about Mr. Beresford. “No, only what you’ve told me…” You glanced at the medical chart Nora handed you. “He’s 22, a smoker, been on the donor list for over a year, finally got a compatible donor late last night.”
“Well, Miss Y/L/N, there’s more to it than just that,” Nora nodded her head at the folder in your lap. She peered at you, attempting to size you up. “Since you will be living with Mr. Beresford for the next 4 to 6 months, you should know what happened to him — it will be all over the news soon,” Nora choked back a sob.
Nora then proceeded to tell you about the attempt on his life by a team of surgeons, orchestrated by Mr. Beresford’s new wife and a man he had believed was his best friend. How his wife injected poison into his donor heart. That his mother, Lilith, committed suicide so she could give him her heart. About the new team of surgeons who took over his second heart transplant. How the murderers tried, but failed, to flee the hospital. How this had all transpired less than 24 hours ago.
“Oh my god!” You threw your hand to your mouth, horrified.
“Mr. Beresford isn't aware I’m telling you this. Please don't tell him I told you.”
“Of course not, I completely understand.”
Over the past half a year, you have become close to Mr. Beresford. This is quite common for live-in private duty nurses and their patients — spending so much time alone with someone, touching them, comforting them physically and emotionally, you form a bond. This is especially true in cases like his — a heart transplant is a highly emotional experience for the patient. (Not to mention the other trauma he was dealing with, which you were not supposed to know about).
After about two weeks of close daily contact, he insisted you call him Clay. “You’ve seen me naked, Y/N! Call me Clay,” he laughed as you checked the incision site on his chest.
“Yes, but that was by accident, Mr. Beresford!” You grinned as you placed a blood pressure cuff around his left bicep. Earlier that day, his towel had slipped off after a sponge bath. He had been extremely embarrassed, even though you tried to reassure him it was fine. The blush that spread across his cheeks had honestly been adorable.
“I really think you can start bathing yourself now, Clay. Here, open,” you instructed him to open his mouth and placed a thermometer under his tongue.
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead closed his mouth and nodded.
That night he asked you to play gin rummy with him, explaining that it had been his and his mother’s favorite card game.
Clay sat wrapped in a blanket on an upholstered leather wingback chair across from yours, one of his nightstands used as a card table in between you. You had positioned the two chairs and table directly in front of the fireplace in his room. Clay mentioned feeling cold and you wanted him to get warm by the fire.
“Just sit on your bed and look pretty,” you told him when he tried to assist you in rearranging his furniture. Clay sat down on his bed with a little huff, pretending to be offended. He lit a cigarette, looked out the window, and watched you out the corner of his eye. You pretended not to notice.
“Okay, so what are the rules? I’ve never played,” you ask, scooting your chair in closer to the table. Clay explained the game and let you win a few times before he started kicking your ass.
“Hey, I was doing so well before!”
“Beginner’s luck,” he smirked, raising his eyebrows playfully. Clay paused to light a cigarette.
“I really wish you wouldn’t smoke, Clay. As your healthcare practitioner…” You began with the speech he had heard several times already that day.
Clay rolled his eyes and held up his left hand as if to silence you. Exhaling, he looked directly into your eyes. “I want to talk.”
“Okay, about what?” Breaking eye contact, you gathered up the cards to shuffle them.
“About what happened to me,” Clay extinguished the cigarette in a crystal ashtray in front of him.
You put the cards down, your eyes meeting his, “I’m listening.”
“I’m not sure if you know, uh, I’m guessing you do — it’s been in the news.” You nod.
“I can’t believe I was so blind. I feel so fucking stupid!” Clay began crying, angrily wiping his tears away with the heels of his hands.
“I miss my mother, I should have listened to her!” Clay’s body was now racked with sobs, “She didn’t… she shouldn’t have — died,” his chest heaved with grief.
You stand and quickly rush over to embrace him. Professional decorum be damned. Clay leaned in to you and muffled his cries against your chest while you stroked his hair.
“I’m so sorry, Clay. I’m so sorry,” without thinking, you kiss the top of his head. He didn’t seem to notice. If he did notice, he didn’t mind. His dark blonde hair smelled like a mixture of cigarettes and shampoo.
Brushing back a curl from his head, you felt a strong urge to protect him, beyond the duty you felt to him as his nurse.
“Clay, you should lay down. I’m worried you’ll strain yourself.” After helping him to his bed, you once again checked his incision site. By now he had stopped crying; he gave you a small embarrassed grin. Your fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary as you gently examined his chest. You smiled back.
All the while your internal monologue is screaming: “Do not have a crush on your patient, Y/N!”
“Goodnight, Clay,” you turned to go back to your room. “Wait, Y/N... Stay with me. Please. I don’t want to be alone,” Clay said quietly.
You blushed, feeling like an idiot with a teenage crush. You were glad your back was facing him.
“Okay, but I’m going to have to start charging you extra,” you joked, trying to compose yourself.
You pushed one of the leather wingback chairs to his bedside. Prepared to pull an all-night vigil watching over him as he slept.
Clay pulled back the covers on his king-size bed, “Climb in, I promise I won’t try anything,” he smirked and then winced. He had been overexerting himself.
You quickly reached for his pain medication on the table next to his bed. Your heart pounding in your chest.
“Here, Clay. Take one of these. You did too much today.”
You laid next to him, careful not to put your body too close to his. Clay took your hand and held it, also careful to leave a gap between his body and yours. You fell asleep holding hands.
Since that night, nearly 5 and a half months ago, you have been sleeping in Clay’s bed with him. Every night. After a month of laying next to him, a foot-wide gap between you, he started spooning you — for short amounts of time, at first, due to his surgery. He asked you if it was okay, of course, the first time. But by that point, it just seemed like a natural progression in the totally unprofessional, highly inappropriate relationship you had with him. Still, you try to maintain some boundaries. Your relationship, although physical, is platonic. You love living with Clay, you adore him. You know the situation will probably not end well, but you are enjoying the ride.
So you escorted Clay to all his follow-up appointments. Took walks with him in Central Park to aid his physical rehabilitation. You quickly become his closest confidant. It seemed natural when he held your hand at his mother’s memorial service, six weeks after his surgery. She had been cremated two days after her death, but the service had been postponed until Clay was well enough to attend. It was a beautiful service: classy, elegant, old money. Clay stayed within an arm's reach of you the entire time; his family, friends, and business associates eyed you both, not saying anything. However, Nora smiled when she saw you together.
Clay has not been back to work all this time, although by now he is healthy enough to return. You no longer need to stay with Clay as his live-in nurse. Earlier this morning, you got a call regarding a placement with a new patient. You haven’t told Clay yet.
This afternoon you were eating brunch with him at Tavern on the Green when one of his colleagues from Beresford Capital stopped by to say hello and enquire about Clay’s recovery.
“My companies run themselves, I don’t want to go back and mess them up,” he quipped when you asked him why he hasn’t gone back to work yet. “Plus, I don’t want to end up like my father,” he said, taking on a more serious tone. You raised your eyebrows at him while finishing your mimosa. “I’ll tell you later,” Clay signaled the waiter for the check.
Tonight, you are sitting together on the red and gold patterned Persian rug in front of his downstairs fireplace. Clay is smoking, you are sharing the second bottle of wine opened this evening. Clay places his cigarette in the nearest ashtray so he can pull your feet into his lap. He starts rubbing your toes. “Your feet are so cute,” he smirks, “and not too smelly!”
You shove his shoulder, laughing.
“Do you want to hear about my dad?” Clay asks, pausing the foot massage so he can take a drag from his Marlboro Red.
“Yes, of course,” you nod, taking a sip of wine while trying to stifle a yawn. You’re not tired, it’s just the wine is beginning to affect you.
“Well… he was an abusive coke head. He worked too hard, it consumed him — made him turn to drugs to be able to keep going.” Clay’s voice is calm and steady. “He worked something like 80 hours a week. He didn’t need to — my mother told me he wasn’t always like that.” He sighs and stops rubbing your feet so he can sip his wine. His cigarette burning itself out in the ashtray.
Clay describes what happened that Christmas Eve when he was a little boy. How he heard his parents arguing in their bedroom, saw his father snorting cocaine. Then, when his father went after Clay, his mother hit him on the back of the head. Woozy from the blow, his father fell down the stairs, over the banister, and died.
He turns and glances in the direction of the spot in the foyer where his father fell. “That was so long ago. I blocked it out — I didn’t even remember it until my surgery,” Clay says barely above a whisper.
“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like, Clay. I’m so sorry.”
He gives you a small smile and stretches, a yawn escaping his lips. “I’ve made peace with it,” he takes your hand and kisses your palm. “I just wanted you to know why I said I don’t want to be like my father.” He looks at you, his pupils wide in the darkness of the firelight.
Clay lays down on his back and motions for you to join him. He gently pulls you towards him so your head rests on his chest. You are mindful of his incision site, even though it’s now healed, the surgery scar covered by his maroon v-neck sweater.
“Clay, I have something to tell you,” you begin, unsure of exactly how to phrase what you are about to say.
After all, you aren’t his girlfriend. You’ve never been intimate with him beyond the hand holding. And the spooning. You’re not needed as his nurse anymore. But still, he’s Clay. And you want him. “Damn,” you think, “I am drunk.”
“Yes, Y/N?” Clay starts lightly tracing circles over your right hand with his fingertips; his left hand resting gently on your hip.
The heady combination of wine, laying with him in front of the fire, and his fingers stroking your skin is too intoxicating; you suddenly feel a warm rush between your legs. Cursing yourself: “You idiot horny bitch!” You decide to tell him tomorrow about your upcoming placement. Right now, you just want him.
“Hmmm, Y/N?” Clay teases you, snapping you out of your internal monologue. He can feel your pulse increasing as his fingertips caress the inside of your wrist.
What the hell? If he rejects you, you’re leaving anyway.
“You know, Clay,” you say, shifting your position to make eye contact with him, “you are 6 months post-op.”
“True,” Clay gives you a lopsided grin, “what are you suggesting? As my nurse, of course.”
Was that lust in his eyes? Feeling bold, you straddle him, positioning your hips over his.
“I was hoping you’d do that,” Clay whispers as you bend forward to kiss him.
He reaches up to push your hair back, his hands resting above your ears. His soft full lips parting eagerly: he tastes like wine, cigarettes, and cherry chapstick. He’s perfect. Clay moans softly as you lick his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. He deepens the kiss by gently sucking on your tongue. You sigh and pull away for air.
“As much as I want to do this here,” Clay gazes up at you, his hands still holding back your hair, “my bed is much more comfortable. And my back is starting to hurt,” he laughs sheepishly.
“Awww, baby,” you gyrate your hips against his, enjoying the friction. You can feel him hardening through his khakis, loving the way his erection feels pressing against your yoga pants. “Stop that, Y/N!” Clay laughs, “It’s been a long time!”
He practically yelps as you reach beneath you and firmly stroke his cock through his pants. Clay sits up and grabs your hips with both hands. He kisses you hard, not wanting to hold back any longer. Pausing for air, he whispers in your ear, “I want to be inside you.”
His words make you moan, another rush of warmth spreading between your legs. The crotch of your yoga pants is noticeably wet. Jumping up, you practically drag him up the staircase.
Once in his room, Clay turns on his bedside lamp. “I want to look at you,” he murmurs, his voice husky.
He helps you out of your clothes, admiring your body. “Baby, you’re gorgeous,” his long eyelashes flutter against his cheeks as looks you up and down, drinking you in.
Much to your frustration, Clay is still fully dressed as he cups your face in his hands and kisses you. He teasingly bites your lower lip when you try to unzip his pants. Clay grabs your hands and holds them to his chest, while continuing to kiss you, clearly enjoying your frustration. “Awww, baby!” He laughs, throwing your words from earlier back at you. Finally, he pauses to allow you to undress him.
And he’s beautiful, like a Greek god. You caress his pectoral muscles, running your hands over his abs and down the sexy v-cut above his hips, appropriately called the Adonis belt. You gently kiss his incision scar while your hands wander down his sculpted back, stopping to grip his muscular ass. Clay presses his hard cock against you as he leans in to taste your lips again, his kisses now sloppy and wet, his hands squeezing your hips as he pulls you against him.
You whimper in protest as he breaks away from your mouth. He nibbles a trail down your throat, between your collarbone, finishing between your breasts.“Daddy,” you moan, raking your hands through his hair.
Clay lifts his head to look at you, a devilish grin on his face. “Mmm, I love it!” He picks you up, wrapping your thighs around his waist and carries you over to his bed.
He sits on the edge of the bed with you still wrapped around him. He greedily takes one of your nipples in his mouth, suckling it. Clay cups his fingers over the swell of your other breast before rubbing his palm across your nipple, savoring the sensation of it hardening under his hand. He pinches it gently between his thumb and middle finger, running his index finger over the tip of it. You moan, grabbing his hair, pushing his head to your other nipple, wanting to feel his mouth all over you. Clay switches to your other breast, moving his fingers to pinch your free nipple now wet with his saliva.
Clay kneads your hip with his free hand before moving it down the curve of your ass, squeezing it hard. He groans, his lips still on your breast, “Mmm... I want your pussy.” Arousal makes his voice gruff against your sensitive nipple, sending tingles down to your soaking cunt. Sliding his hand around from your ass to between your thighs, he moans at how wet you are for him.
Clay groans, “ungh…Baby, you’re dripping.” Licking his lips, he spreads your drooling pussy apart with his fingertips. Clay grips your ass with his other hand, steadying you against him. Looking into your eyes, he glides his thumb over your swollen clit, making you whimper. You close your eyes, grinding against the heel of his hand, as he continues massaging your sensitive nub.
You moan as Clay slides his middle finger inside you, simultaneously rubbing your clit with his thumb. Enjoying your noises, he rests his forehead against yours. You both groan as he adds another finger. He swirls them inside you, massaging your walls, curling his fingertips. You start to shudder, thrusting against his hand, the slick from your pussy pooling in his palm.
“You feel amazing. So wet… mmmm.”
You mewl as he removes his hand, his fingers shining with your juices. He licks them, savoring the taste. By this point, you are feral. You need him inside you.
You reach for his cock, lining it up with your slippery entrance. “Ungh… fuck me, Daddy,” you moan as his swollen tip slides into you.
Clay groans, quickly pulling you from his lap, he practically throws you on his bed. His dick bobbing with anticipation.
In one fluid motion, Clay spreads your legs and pulls your hips under him. You quiver as he grabs his cock in one hand and glides it up and down your slit, groaning at the sensation.
Unable to control himself any longer, he slides into your warm wet hole, moaning as your walls envelope him. He thrusts into you, pulling your legs up higher around his waist. Clay fucks you hard, burying his shaft deep in your pussy, with each thrust his balls bounce against your fourchette.
Circling your hips, you push up against him, grinding your clit into his pelvis. Your entwined bodies are slick with sweat. Incoherent sex noises and wet slapping sounds fill the room; the air thick with pheromones. You begin shaking as your walls contract and flutter around him, groaning as you feel his cock swell larger inside you. Your throbbing pussy tingles, the rush of release from your climax milking his cock. You shudder as Clay fucks you through your orgasm, both of you moaning.
The sounds of you cumming and the sensations of your wet walls contracting and squeezing his shaft pushes Clay to his limits. “I’m gonna cum,” he groans, grasping his cock, about to pull out of you.
“Ungh, Daddy!” You thrust your hips up, claiming him, desperate to feel him explode inside you. He groans, your words sending him over the edge. He pumps his cum deep in your pussy. Contracting your muscles, you squeeze his thickness, milking his climax.
Shuddering, Clay collapses on top of you with a sigh.
“Baby, don’t ever leave me.”