The Peanut Butter Babysitter
Copyright© 2004 by MarkStory
Chapter 7
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Jim and Aimee have a chance meeting over a jar of peanut butter. In the beginning, he's a married father, she's a college student. That chance meeting in a grocery store, and the coincidence that follows, will change their lives (and others' lives)! I brought this story back to life in late 2025, more than 20 years after I first started writing it.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Polygamy/Polyamory Masturbation Oral Sex Babysitter Slow
Friday nights had their own rhythm in our house -- a slow exhale after the week, a loose plan for pizza or leftovers, then the familiar, mildly chaotic march toward baths and pajamas and toothbrush battles.
I was helping Ethan line up toy boats in the tub while Beth started drying Jake when my work phone buzzed across the counter. Not my regular number -- the emergency app, the one that ignored all “Do Not Disturb” settings and work/life borders.
Beth’s head snapped up. “Oh no. Not tonight.”
I checked the screen, already feeling the cold edge of obligation settling in. “It’s district 3 dispatch.”
She closed her eyes like she was counting to three. “Okay. Answer it.”
I stepped into the hall.
“Robinson,” I said.
The voice on the other end wasted no time. A tractor-trailer had lost traction on black ice, jackknifed near the I-393 interchange. Eastbound ramp blocked. They needed a certified engineer on-site ASAP to approve a temporary traffic diversion while the winch crew got into position.
So much for Friday night.
When I came back into the bathroom, both boys were wrapped burrito-style in towels and Beth was brushing Jake’s hair.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’ve gotta go in,” I said gently. “Probably a couple hours. Maybe three. They need sign-off for the emergency reroute.”
Beth sighed -- not irritated, just worn thin. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Aimee appeared in the doorway like she was summoned, hair messy, wearing leggings and one of her oversized sweatshirts. “Need backup?” she asked Beth, already reaching for Ethan’s towel.
Beth let out a breath that was half-laugh. “God, yes.”
Aimee lifted Ethan into her arms with practiced ease. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you dried off before you turn into a popsicle.”
He giggled into her neck, as Jake leaned into Beth’s side, sleepy and damp.
That image -- Aimee carrying one boy, Beth steadying the other -- hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Like the house had grown around her without me noticing.
Beth turned to me, brushing wet curls off Jake’s forehead. “Text me when you’re headed back.”
“I will.”
I kissed her -- quick, warm, familiar -- then bent to kiss Jake’s head. Aimee shifted so I could reach Ethan, too, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she eased him back against her shoulder.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, Aimee lingered in the doorway just a beat, balancing Ethan on one hip. “Drive safe, Jim. Roads are already shit.”
Our eyes held a fraction too long. She didn’t look away.
Then the moment passed -- Beth and Aimee taking the boys to their room, the two of them slipping easily into a shared rhythm, Aimee filling in like a backup quarterback.
Downstairs, I stood for another second, coat half-on, listening to their voices drift down the stairs -- Beth’s steady warmth, Aimee’s gentler echo of it.
A strange feeling tugged at me: pride, dislocation, something in between.
I stepped into the cold, pulling the door shut behind me.
Beth got the boys down faster than she expected. Maybe it was the warm bath, maybe it was the snow tapping at the window, maybe it was the way Aimee had read the last few pages of Goodnight Moon in that soft, melodic voice that always settled them.
By the time she eased their door shut, the house had gone hushed in that particular way it only did on winter nights -- the kind of quiet that felt like a blanket.
Her phone buzzed.
Jim: Made it. Roads are crap. Might take a while to wrap this up.
Beth exhaled, relieved that he had made it to the site safely. But of course, it had to be tonight. On a Friday. When she finally felt like the week was over.
She padded downstairs and found Aimee in the kitchen rinsing off a cutting board. Her hair was coming loose from the messy bun she’d thrown it into for bedtime-duty, and below her pajama pants her socks were mismatched -- one navy, one pale yellow. Somehow that detail made Beth smile.
Aimee glanced up. “Everything good?”
“Yeah,” Beth said. “Boys are down. Jim texted -- he’s safe, but he’ll be a while.”
Aimee nodded sympathetically. “Sorry. That sucks.”
Beth shrugged. “Comes with the job. Still ... annoying.”
A beat passed. Not awkward -- just one of those moments where the room waits to see which direction the night will lean.
Beth walked to the cabinet, grabbed two wine glasses. “You want some wine?”
Aimee’s face softened into a smile. “I really do.”
Beth poured, handed Aimee the fuller glass, and leaned against the counter. Aimee hopped up to sit on the island stool across from her, one foot tucked under her thigh, the picture of easy comfort. The warmth in the kitchen seemed to stretch out between them.
They clinked glasses -- casual, unceremonious.
Aimee took a sip. “God. That’s good. Or I’m just tired.”
“Both,” Beth said, taking her own. The first swallow warmed all the way down.
For a moment they just sipped, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space. Then Aimee tilted her head, studying Beth with that unfiltered honesty she always had.
“You okay?” she asked.
Beth blinked. “Yeah. I mean -- long week. The usual.”
Aimee didn’t look convinced. “You seem ... I don’t know. Lighter tonight. Happier.”
Beth laughed under her breath, a little embarrassed to be seen so clearly. “Maybe. Maybe that’s you rubbing off on me.”
Aimee smiled around the rim of her glass. “Well, I’m glad.”
Beth looked at her then -- really looked. The flushed cheeks from the bathroom humidity, the loose tendril of hair by her temple, the softness in her posture. The house felt different with her in it. She felt different with Aimee in it.
“You’re good with them,” Beth said quietly. “Really good. And ... I can’t tell you what a relief that is.”
Aimee’s face softened. “I love them so much. They make everything feel ... easy. Like life doesn’t have to be so heavy all the time.”
Beth set her glass down. “You make things easier, too. We needed you. Need you.”
Aimee froze a moment -- just a flicker -- at the vulnerability in those words. Then she leaned forward on her elbows, chin balanced on her hand.
“Tell me what you mean.”
Beth swallowed. Why had she said it like that? Why did it feel like stepping onto a branch that might snap?
“I mean like tonight. How you just jumped into help when we needed it. And somehow ... this house hadn’t felt like a family for a while. Something was ... off. And with you here--” She hesitated, surprised to feel heat rise in her cheeks. “You fit. You just ... fit.”
Aimee didn’t tease her. Didn’t deflect. Just let the words land.
“That means more than you think,” she murmured.
Beth took a long sip of wine -- too long -- and Aimee smiled like she knew exactly what that was.
Then -- Aimee reached out and tucked a strand of Beth’s hair behind her ear.
A tiny gesture. Soft. Familiar. Unthinking.
Except this time Beth felt it all the way down her spine.
She didn’t pull away. Didn’t breathe.
The air shifted -- slow, weighted, unmistakably intimate.
Aimee’s voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. “You really are lighter tonight. And honest.”
Beth didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know where to look. So she looked at Aimee -- and found Aimee already looking at her.
For one suspended second neither of them moved. Then Beth cleared her throat, too softly to cut the tension.
“I ... think we need more wine,” she said.
Aimee’s mouth curled, like she heard the subtext and chose kindness over commentary. “I’m not stopping you.”
Beth refilled both glasses and tried not to notice that her hand shook just a little. She handed Aimee her glass, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary.
“Couch?” Beth asked, voice too light, too casual, betraying her nerves.
“Yeah,” Aimee said softly. “Couch.”
They moved into the living room, the lamps low and golden. Beth grabbed the throw blanket draped over the back of the sofa and sat at one end. Aimee hesitated--just a breath--then settled beside her instead of across. Not touching, but close. One shared warmth pool under the blanket instead of two separate islands of space.
Beth reached for the remote. “We could put on a movie,” she said.
Aimee smiled. “Sure. If you want.”
Beth clicked the TV on, flipped through a few menus, then let the remote settle in her lap. The screen glowed silently before them, unchosen. Neither of them pressed play.
The wine warmed them from the inside out. The house stayed hushed. And the conversation drifted in like a tide.
Aimee tucked her feet up under her, shoulders angled toward Beth. “So ... what was Beth like in college?”
Beth laughed suddenly, startled by the question. “Oh, I was a mess. In a cute, responsible way. I worked two jobs, fell asleep in half my classes, and lived on ramen and Diet Coke.”
Aimee grinned. “This is shocking information.”
Beth nudged her knee under the blanket. “Shut up. What about your first couple of years?”
Aimee hesitated, then admitted, “I thought I knew who I was. Then I didn’t. Then I did again. And now I’m still figuring it out.”
Beth’s expression softened. “That sounds ... honest.”
Aimee nodded. “Yeah. Theme of the night. Messy, but honest.” She swirled her wine. “It’s easier here than it should be.”
“Easier?” Beth asked.
Aimee looked at the room, at the quiet, at the faint hum of the heater warming the space around them. “This house. You. Jim. The boys. It’s like...” She exhaled, searching. “Like I finally relaxed when I moved in. Like I knew things were going to be okay.”
Beth felt something pull in her chest. She leaned back against the couch cushion, her shoulder brushing Aimee’s lightly under the blanket. “You’ve changed this house,” she said quietly. “You’ve changed us.”
Aimee’s lashes lifted. “In a good way?”
“In the best way,” Beth said before she could second-guess it.
Silence fell--not cold or tense, but thick with something unnamed. Aimee’s thigh pressed gently against hers beneath the blanket. Neither moved away.
Beth swallowed. “I didn’t realize how ... lonely I’d gotten. Even with a family. Even with Jim.” Her voice softened to almost nothing. “You woke something up.”
Aimee blinked, her breath a tiny hitch. “You woke something up in me, too.”
Beth turned her face slightly toward her. Aimee mirrored the motion, inches shrinking to millimeters. They were breathing the same cooled-over wine air now.
“Is that ... okay?” Aimee whispered.
Beth didn’t answer right away. She didn’t trust her voice. She just let her knee slide against Aimee’s under the blanket, felt the answering shift.
“It might not be,” Beth murmured. “But it feels ... real.”
The TV screen dimmed itself in the background, forgotten, the room slipping into shadow and breath and heat.
They shifted toward each other without deciding to. Later, neither would be able to swear who moved first.
Beth felt the moment tip. Aimee’s eyes flicked once to Beth’s mouth, and that was all it took for something in the air to tilt, warm and trembling.
The blanket slid slightly as they leaned in, their shoulders brushing, breath mingling. Beth’s heartbeat felt loud enough to be heard. Aimee’s hand twitched on the cushion, like she briefly considered reaching for Beth’s, then didn’t.
Their noses brushed--just a soft, tentative graze that made Beth’s breath catch.
And then their lips met.
It wasn’t hungry or reckless. Not this first one. It was soft--warmer than Beth expected, slower than Aimee expected. A gentle press, like each of them was waiting for the other to pull away and neither did.
Aimee’s lips parted a fraction in surprise, just enough for Beth to feel the faintest exhale against her mouth. Beth’s hand found Aimee’s cheek, barely there, more a question than a touch.
The kiss lasted only a few seconds--five, maybe six--but time folded around it, stretching it out until the world outside the couch felt very far away.
When they finally pulled back, their faces stayed close, foreheads nearly touching. Both of them breathing out at the same moment.
They didn’t kiss again. Not yet. They just sat there, almost touching, trying to catch up to the thing their bodies had already admitted.
Aimee’s breath was still warm on Beth’s cheek. Beth’s heart hadn’t figured out its normal rhythm again. The room felt smaller, softer, like someone had turned down all the sharp edges.
“Okay,” Aimee whispered, almost laughing at the simplicity of it. “So that ... happened.”
Beth let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Yeah. It did.”
For a long beat they just looked at each other, faces close, wine-soft, unsure who they were now. Then Beth reached for the bottle on the coffee table -- muscle memory, not escape -- and poured a little into each of their glasses.
“Let’s ... chat,” she said, voice low but steady.
Aimee nodded. They shifted back into the couch, under the shared blanket again -- bodies closer this time, their knees touching, shoulders brushing whenever either of them breathed.
They talked, but not about the kiss. Not at first.
They talked about the boys -- how Ethan had tried to glue a googly-eye to the refrigerator last week, how Jake insisted he was ready for a “big kid bed” even though he rolled like a puppy in his sleep.
They talked about growing up -- Aimee in Maine, Beth in Massachusetts, both of them learning too early how to read a room, how to shrink or expand depending on who needed what from them.
They talked about feeling out of place in their own families, and how the house they were sitting in -- this messy, loud, improbable house -- felt unexpectedly ... good.
Warm. Chosen.
Then the conversation circled back, almost inevitably, like a tide they’d both been pretending not to hear.
“I didn’t plan to kiss you tonight,” Aimee said quietly.
“I know,” Beth answered.
“It felt...” She stopped, searching for a word, maybe too many.
“Right?” Beth offered, softly.
Aimee nodded.
They didn’t kiss again right away. They just sat quietly with it -- the truth of it, the tenderness, the danger -- until both of them felt slightly braver.
Then Aimee turned toward her, eyes soft. “Can I--?”
Beth answered by leaning in.
The second kiss was slower. Warmer. Not an accident, not curiosity. A choice. A short one, but there was depth there -- a promise, or maybe a warning.
When they finally stood, it was late enough that exhaustion tugged at both of them.
They carried their glasses to the sink. Turned off the lamp. Folded the blanket.
At the hallway, they hesitated -- close enough to feel each other’s warmth, far enough to pretend they were keeping a boundary.
Aimee whispered, “Goodnight, Beth.”
Beth didn’t answer right away. She stood there in the soft hallway light, taking in the sight of Aimee -- flushed from wine, pajamas quietly revealing the shape of her body, eyes warm in a way Beth had tried not to name on dozens of other nights.
Her hand moved before her mind fully caught up -- fingers brushing Aimee’s wrist, slow and sure.
“Come here,” Beth murmured. Not commanding. Not shy. Just ... honest.
Aimee’s breath caught, but she stepped in, closing the distance between them. Beth tilted her chin up slightly -- a gesture she’d forgotten she knew -- and pressed a gentle kiss to Aimee’s lips. Not urgent. Not searching. Just the kind of kiss you give someone you’ve been wanting to kiss goodnight for longer than you’ll ever admit aloud.
When she pulled back, Beth whispered, almost to herself, “That’s allowed tonight.”
Aimee looked stunned for half a heartbeat, then softened into a smile she couldn’t have hidden if she tried.
“Goodnight,” Beth repeated, quiet and warm.
Aimee touched her fingers to her own lips as she slipped through her bedroom door.
Beth stood in the hallway a moment longer, pulse steadying, knowing she’d crossed something -- not recklessly, not blindly, but with intent.
And knowing she didn’t regret it.
Saturday morning, I woke up slow -- the kind of slow that happens when you don’t get home until nearly midnight and the whole house has already folded itself into sleep. The silence was thick, deliberate; the bed empty. Someone had tried to keep things quiet for me.
Downstairs, the smell of waffles and bacon drifted up like a cartoon hand, luring me out of bed. I couldn’t remember the last time breakfast had happened without me.
I pulled on a T-shirt, rubbed a hand over my face, and headed down.
“Shhh, Daddy’s coming!” Ethan whisper-shouted.
“Not too loud,” Jake hissed. “Aimee said so.”
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