Page 77 of Who's Your Daddy?

“What? These are so cute...and I feel kinda sexy in them.”

“I don’t care. It was just for the photos. You’re not sleeping in that.”

I glare at him because he can be so unreasonable at times. “Peter, they’re not gonna fit me for much longer, so I just want to make the most of them before my belly gets too big.”

“I still don’t care. Take them off.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

I lift the covers again, and he pushes it back against the mattress. I look up at him and don’t even encounter a flicker of a smile. He’s dead-ass serious, staring me down like I’ve offended him in the most heinous way. I refuse to cave to this level of immaturity and try to lift the covers again.

“Don’t play with me, Li.” His tone is stern, but I hear the tiniest hint of humor. “Let’s not do this the hard way. Just take them off.”

“Stop being a child,” I say, placing my hands on my hips. “I’m wearing these to bed and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“What?” And just like that, a challenge ignites in his eyes. “Oh, you did not just say that to me.”

He grasps my waist and tosses me onto the bed.

I manage to escape his hold and scamper away, holding my finger up to stop him. “I warn you. I’m a master in Eskrima.”

“You’re a blue belt. That’s hardly a master.”

Even though he barely uses any force, he overpowers me in a matter of seconds.

His fingers trigger an eruption of giggles when he catches the hem of my top. I curl into a ball, trying to shove his hands off. “You’re tickling me!”

“Then hold still.” He snickers as we roll all over the bed.

“Uncle!” I scream. “Stop tickling! I said uncle!”

“Why are you yelling?” He’s laughing so hard he can barely get a proper hold of the material. “You don’t need to say uncle. Just let me get this off.”

“Never!” I shout as one last act of rebellion. “Monsieur, I put it to you...” I switch to a French accent to make it more dramatic. “...that the résistance shall never surrender.”

“What the fuck are you even saying?” He doubles over with another peal of laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his contagious mirth filling the room. “I’m just trying to get these pajamas off, and you’re starting a revolution.” He almost collapses on top of me, and for a moment, all I can focus on is the sheer delight dancing in his eyes. “Hold. Still.” His voice is a mixture of amusement and mock exasperation as he tries to catch his breath.

Somehow, he gets a good grip on my top, and in a swift motion, it's off, leaving me slightly stunned. But before I can even react, he's grabbing the back of his own T-shirt and yanking it over his head, his movements almost too quick to track. He drapes me in it the next second, the fabric warm from his skin, his smell still lingering on it.

“There.” Breathlessly, he drops over on the bed beside me. “That’s better.”

I accept defeat and throw myself back against the fluffy pillows. “You hate my pajamas that much?”

“More than I let on.” He grabs the offensive top and chucks it out of the bedroom as if exiling it. “I’m burning them all tomorrow.”

“You can take my pj’s, but you will never take my freedom!”

“Your Scottish accent is worse than your French accent,” he says with a playful grin. “No moreBraveheartfor you. No more war movies in general.”

“Just last week, you were nagging me to watch it with you, and you insisted it was a classic that I absolutely had to watch, and this week you’re complaining about the very same movie.”

“Well, I didn’t realize that it would have a real-world impact and make you so confrontational.”

“Maybe if you didn’t resort to these barbaric caveman tactics, I wouldn’t need to be confrontational.”

He raises his eyebrows as if shocked by my choice of words. “Caveman?”

“Yes. A caveman. I said what I said. I don’t understand this need men have to mark their territory. But let’s just make it clear. I, sir, will not be claimed or marked by you or any other man.”

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