Nanny for the Neighbors: A Surprise Baby Reverse Harem Romance

Oh my God.

I stare at Cyrus in shock, and he stares right back, his eyes wide and stricken, like a rabbit caught in headlights. For a second, I think he actually might run. He looks like he wants to disappear off the face of the planet. Which is odd, because as far as I’m concerned, he’s never looked hotter.

Standing under the bright lights, his cut, muscled body shining in oil and dripping with sweat, wearing nothing but a pair of tight briefs… my mouth is watering. My underwear is damp. My thighs are clenched together. I can’t look away.

The lights flash, and Cyrus slips effortlessly back into his flirty persona. He struts forward, winking at the crowd, then throws himself backwards into a flip, tumbling across the stage like some kind of pro cheerleader. The other men grab the crotches of their pants, bucking along with the music, all perfectly synchronised as they dance.

Benny whoops next to me, and I lean back in my seat, take another sip of my drink, and let myself get lost in the show.

The next forty-five minutes pass in a blur. I have never had so much fun on a night out, ever. It’s a pretty long set; I count at least seven songs. Sometimes all the guys dance together, and sometimes there are solo acts. For one number, called Get me Wet, they actually bring a female dancer out onto the stage. She and one of the guys perform a practically pornographic dance in a square pool. Water streams down over their almost-naked bodies as they throw each other around and grind against one another. They end the number soaked and gasping. As does most of the audience.

“Shit,” Benny mumbles, as they stand and take a bow. “I want to fuck them both?”

I don’t say anything, my eyes glued on Cyrus as he saunters back onstage dressed in a pair of tight leather pants.

The finale, of course, is ‘Pony’. As soon as the crowd recognises the tune, everyone goes wild. The guys pull out all the stops. Some are rubbing baby oil over their naked abs. Some are doing flips. A few drop down into the front row and start grinding on the girls. There’s a shirtless guy hanging from a swing, gyrating with the music as he’s lowered from the ceiling. Lights are flashing, strobes are flickering, smoke is floating across the stage in big plumes. When the last beat of the song finally fades away, I’m hot and flushed. My whole body is singing. I pick up my drink and roll it over my chest, then press it against my cheek.

The announcer jogs back on stage, grinning around at us. “Alright, ladies!” He calls. “That’s half-time! Order some more drinks, call your boyfriends, and do your best to cool off. We’ll be back in a few!”

“There’s another act?” I ask, half-horrified. I don’t know if I can handle any more. Benny just snickers next to me. The house lights come up, and the men scatter. Some of them head backstage, and others disperse into the audience, coming to join the seated women.

Cyrus stays on the stage, scanning the rows of tables. Our eyes catch again, and the expression on his face makes my stomach cold. His charming smile has fallen, and now he looks worried. Upset. Anxious.

Guilt floods me. Shit. I’ve messed up. I shouldn’t have stayed to watch him dance, I should’ve gone home. There’s a reason he kept his job a secret from me; he doesn’t want me to know he works here. It’s one thing to strip in front of a bunch of strangers every night, but it must feel completely different when it’s somebody you know. If this scenario was flipped, I’d be terrified of his reaction. I’d be terrified of him telling other people, or judging me. And it’s not like he could’ve just left the stage when he saw me. Which means I’ve essentially just forced him to do something that made him feel really uncomfortable. Crap.

As I watch, he turns and walks into the wings.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I murmur to Benny, standing. I need to talk to him. I need to clear this up.

Benny nods. “I’m gonna… get another drink.”

“I bet you are.”

I push through the dark, thumping club, slipping through the tables and the clusters of girls clutching their drinks. As I pass by the stage, one of the dancers mingling in the crowd catches my hand and smiles at me winningly, drawing my fingers teasingly towards his abs. He sparkles under the low lights. I’m pretty sure he’s covered in glitter.

“Um, sorry, maybe later,” I babble, then bolt for the nearest door.

It leads out into a dark corridor with black-painted walls. Girls in tiny dresses and stilettos queue in line for the bathroom, fixing up their makeup and chattering loudly about the show.

“Did you see that Romeo guy?” I overhear as I try to slide past them all. “He’s the guy from the posters, right?”

Even though I feel bad, I can’t help the giggle that bubbles up inside me. I can’t believe Cy’s stage name is seriously Randy Romeo.

“He’s sooo hot,” the girl continues. “Like, all the guys can dance, but he just has, like, charisma, you know?”

“It’s his smile,” another girl sighs. “I hope he picks me for the private dance. I’m gonna grab his bits.”

I squeeze past them to the door at the very end of the hall. There’s a muscly security guard standing in front of it, flicking through his phone. I peep past him. The door has a sign which reads EMPLOYEES ONLY tacked to the wood. It’s cracked slightly open, and I can hear the chatter of low male voices coming from inside.

I smile at the guard. “Um, is this the dressing room for the guys?”

He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, miss, I’ve heard it all. I know you’re not dating any of them, and even if you were, we don’t really want you giving your boyfriend a blowie in the employee showers.”

My face turns red. “Oh, I don’t want to sneak in! Or, um, give any blowies. I’m just looking for Cyrus.”

The man’s face creases. “Cyrus?”

“Yeah?” A voice comes from inside the dressing room. My heart lurches.

The guard turns. “Fuck, is that your real name?”

“Well, it’s not fucking Randy Romeo, is it?” Cyrus sounds bitter. “Dude, I’ve worked here for years.”

The guard sniffs. “Whatever. There’s a girl who wants to see you.”

There’s a pause, and then I swear I hear a low groan. The dressing room door pushes open, and Cyrus steps out. He’s changed into a new outfit: a grey suit and white collared shirt. A silky tie hangs around his neck, and his hair has been combed back. My mouth practically waters. He looks like some kind of Fifty Shades-inspired wet dream.

And he doesn’t look happy to see me.

“Beth,” he says flatly. “Fancy seeing you here.”