If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: Chapter 34

IT’S ONLY BEEN A WEEK since Marlow left, and I miss her so much.

Saying goodbye to her at the airport was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I cried on the way home, unable to control my emotions—however, I’ll never admit that to anyone.

In the days leading up to Marlow’s departure, her face lit up whenever she spoke about the residency program and how excited she was about this opportunity. Seeing her enthusiasm makes all the difficulties that come with it worth it.

For the most part, Lola and Waffles are holding up better than I expected. Granted, it’s only been a week, and Lola asks me every day when Marlow’s coming back, and Waffles whines at the front door, confused why she hasn’t come to take him home to their pink house.

The first night, I attempted to get Waffles to sleep in his dog bed in the living room, but after hours of his whining, I eventually caved. Now he sleeps with Lola. I have to admit, they’re damn cute when they’re snuggled up together in Lola’s bed.

The most challenging part of our situation is navigating the six-hour time difference and finding windows in our busy schedules to connect.

I check my watch to see that it’s 5:15 a.m., which means 11:15 a.m. in Paris. Marlow should be on a break right now, according to the schedule she sent me. I try calling her twice, but she doesn’t answer. A few minutes later, she sends me a text.

Marlow: I’m sorry I missed your call. I had to go back to my apartment in between classes to grab some paint supplies, and now I’m running late.

Dylan: Did you eat breakfast?

Marlow: Do Cheez-Its and a croissant count?

Dylan: Please tell me that’s not all you’ve had to eat today.

Marlow: I plead the fifth.

Dylan: Did you lock your front door?

Marlow: I did. 😊 I’m walking into class now. I’ll talk to you later. I love you! 😘

Dylan: Love you too, sunshine. ❤️

It’s been over twenty-four hours since I’ve talked to Marlow, and I’m feeling irritable.

I’m working from home today, and it’s depressing whenever I glance at her house and see her empty studio. The silence is suffocating, making me miss the sound of her playlist as I watch her hips sway to the beat of the music. I’m hard just thinking about her in those tight yoga pants and what I wouldn’t give to watch her fall apart beneath me right now.

My phone rings, and I immediately answer the video chat when I see who it is.

“Hey, sunshine.”

Marlow’s smiling face greets me. She’s styled her hair in a halo braid, and she’s wearing her floral overalls with a pastel tie-dye shirt underneath. Next to her is an easel displaying a canvas with a partially painted flower.

God, I miss her so much.

“Hi,” she sighs in relief. “I’m so glad I caught you.”

This time of day is a gamble, depending on my meeting schedule and if I’m working from home or flying to and from the city. Tonight Lola’s with my parents since I had to work late.

I glance at my watch to see that it’s 12:30 a.m. in Paris.

“What are you doing up so late?”

“I was practicing a new technique I learned in class today and lost track of time. I figured I’d try to call you before I went to bed.”

She has a smudge of red paint on her nose, and I’d give anything to be there in person to wipe it off and re-create the scene from her studio.

“How are your classes going?”

“Oh, Dylan, they’re incredible,” Marlow gushes. “It’s only been a week, and I’ve already learned so much. It’s a dream come true.” She pauses as a guilty expression crosses her face.

I hold my finger up to the camera. “None of that,” I warn. “You’re where you’re supposed to be, and I’m so damn proud of you. Now tell me, did you remember to eat dinner tonight?”

“I had the most incredible Boeuf Bourguignon tonight, thanks to you,” she says.

After she told me she was eating Cheez-Its for breakfast, I reached out to a client of Stafford Holdings who owns multiple restaurants in Paris. I arranged for regular meal deliveries to Marlow’s apartment, complete with handwritten sticky notes I overnighted so they could include them in the delivery.

While I can’t be there in person to care for Marlow, I’m committed to showing her she is cherished and loved, even when I’m thousands of miles away.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” I watch as she chews on her lower lip, a sign that she’s usually nervous or has something she wants to talk about. “What are you thinking?”

“About how much I miss you.”

“Why don’t you show me?” I suggest with a smirk.

Since she’s been gone, we haven’t had a private moment, and I think we’re both desperate for each other.

Her cheeks flush before she hurries to the other side of the room to get another easel. She places it at the foot of her bed and sets the phone on it, giving me the perfect view as she unfastens the buttons of her overalls. I watch as she slowly tugs them down over her hips. They fall to the floor and she steps out of them.

My cock twitches as she lifts her shirt over her head and tosses it to the ground.

“Fuck, you’re a goddamn vision,” I groan, taking in her lacy blue bra and green panties.

“I wish you were here in person,” she murmurs.

“Me too, sunshine, more than anything.” So much that it hurts. “Why don’t you show me what I’m missing?” I coax her.

She smirks at the camera as she unfastens her bra, revealing her luscious breasts for me. I wish I were there to put one of her pert nipples in my mouth, tugging and biting as she cries out from the overload of sensations.

“Did you get your present that I packed for you?”

“Uh-huh,” she nods. “It’s right here.”

She gives me an obscene view of her ass as she bends over to retrieve the pink vibrator I put in her suitcase before she left. When she turns around, she’s holding the device up with a smile.

“Lie down on the bed so I can see that pretty pussy of yours,” I order.

Marlow crawls onto the mattress and lies down on her back. She takes a pillow, tucks it under her hips, and spreads her legs so I can see her pussy is already wet for me.

“Damn, you’re sexy. Play with your nipples.”

She grabs a breast with each hand, cupping them tightly. She tugs and pinches on her nipples like I would if I were there, except she’s not giving them enough pressure.

“Pinch harder,” I command.

She squeezes her nipple firmer between her fingers, and her mouth parts open in a surprised gasp.

“Oh god, that feels so good,” she cries.

While she plays with her breasts, I yank open my desk drawer and take out the pair of panties I kept from our night at the hotel before she left. I unbutton my pants and take my cock out with a sense of urgency.

“Take the vibrator and slide it into that dripping wet cunt of yours.”

As she pushes the device inside herself, I wrap the panties around my shaft and stroke it in slow, steady pumps. I let out a sharp hiss when the lace rubs against my skin, sending a shock of arousal through my veins.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart.” I pause, as I watch her pleasure herself with the vibrator. “Imagine I’m there, kneeling in front of you, my hands gripping your thighs.” The pace of her breathing picks up as she turns up the speed on the device. “I’m licking your pussy with my tongue as I play with those pretty little nipples of yours.” I squeeze my cock harder as I watch her push the vibrator in and out of her cunt in even strokes. “When you’re writhing beneath me, begging for me to let you come, I pinch your clit between my fingers until you fall over the edge.”

“Oh, Dylan,” she pants out.

“Harder. Fuck yourself harder.”

I’m mesmerized as she quickens her pace, and with her other hand she pinches her clit just as I described. Her back arches off the bed as she cries out in ecstasy, chasing her release. I let out a low groan, placing my hand against my desk, jerking off like a horny teenager. My own release hits me like a freight train, cum shooting onto my stomach.

Marlow pulls the vibrator out of herself and tosses it aside. Her head falls back on her pillow as she murmurs incoherently.

“My beautiful, messy girl,” I murmur. “I love you so damn much, sunshine.”

“I love you too, Dylan,” she whispers.

Only eighty-three days until Marlow comes home, but who’s counting?