Page 74 of The Pucking Arrangement

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face.

One moment, I’m sleep-deprived, horny, and barely functional. The next, I’m somehow agreeing to a last-minute mission to find a six-year-old a red dress.

“I have my pre-show routine anyway,” Erin chimes in smoothly, her tone too innocent to be trusted. “Lots of scales, meditation, that whole thing. Sophie offered to pick up Ris and watch her if you want to sleep. I can practice outside by the pool; it’s warm enough. I hope it won’t disturb you.” A pause. Then, quieter, “Or I could go back to my place in the city to give you some peace?”

Don’t.

The word slams through me, visceral and immediate.

“The music won’t bother me one bit.” The words come out a strained rasp.

I picture her outside in the golden morning light, fingers moving deftly over the strings of her cello. Her body shifting, tilting, lost in the music. Her skin glowing. Her hair tumbling down her back.

I swallow hard. Fucking hell.

“Please, Papa?” Ris presses. “I’ll be so good. I’ll go to bed right after, I promise!”

I look at my pleading daughter, then at Erin.

She’s hiding a smile.

But her eyes are dancing with the knowledge that I will give in.

“I would love for you to come,” she says softly. “Both of you. If you’re not too tired. It starts at six.”

Too tired?

No,solnyshko.

I’ll be wide fucking awake.

“Please?” Ris wraps around my legs, relentless. “Pretty please with sugar?—”

“Okay.” The word escapes before I can stop it. Rough. Begrudging. Inevitable.“Okay, we’ll go.”

Ris squeals, throwing her arms around me. Erin’s smile widens, just enough to send heat licking up my spine. And I realize I’ve just signed up for hours of watching her perform. Hours of seeing her completely in her element. Hours of not touching. Hours of fighting the urge to drag her into some dark backstage corner and ruin her for anyone else.

“I’ll take Ris to school,” Erin says, all smooth and composed while I’m standing here fuckingwrecked.“You go sleep now.”

“Okay. I’ll pick Ris up at three. Then we all go together?” I focus on logistics, not on the way the sunlight catches the copper strands in Erin’s hair. Not on the way her lips curve, still swollen from my kiss. “We can arrive early, let Ris see the venue?”

“That would be perfect.” Her smile is soft and genuine. “And honestly? Having a driver will help. Pre-show jitters make me a menace behind the wheel.”

“It’s settled then.” I press a kiss to Ris’s curls, my brain still short circuiting. “Be good for Erin,Amnushka.Let Papa rest.”

“I’ll keep it quiet when I come back,” Erin promises.

But there’s a wicked gleam in her eye that makes my mind go to averydirty place. Making me wonder if she’s quiet in bed. If she gasps, moans, whimpers. If she begs. If she screams. If she shatters apart with soft, breathless cries or desperate, broken pleas. If she arches into it, offers herself up, surrenders completely.

Because I already know—she does all of those things.

I turn before I do something very fucking stupid in front of my daughter.

Like pin Erin against the wall and find out right fucking now.

* * *

Upstairs I strip as I walk, shedding my shirt, my shorts, stepping into the shower. The steam wraps around me, but it’s Erin’s lips I feel on me. It’s not hard to picture her perched in my lap, dress bunched around her hips, thighs clenching around me as I drive into her.

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