Page 33 of Off-Limits Daddy
Not fair. The man didn’t just have the body of someone I shouldn’t be thinking about with my mom two rooms away—he had a good heart, too. Beautiful in the ways that mattered most. Dangerous in all the ways that made it hard to stay still.
As he crossed to my desk, I pushed up higher, using the movement to cover the way my dick was beginning to harden. Pressed my back to the headboard, legs stretched out beneath the covers, arms loose at my sides like I wasn’t coming apart inside.
“You really didn’t have to,” I said, trying for casual. “You already do the good deed rounds. The Santanas have you on retainer.”
That earned me one of those half-smiles—the ones that made me forget how to use common sense. The kind that made me want to lean in even when I knew better. “They pay me in banana bread. You couldn’t afford me.”
He set the bag down on my desk, but he didn’t walk away.
“Besides,” he added, voice low, “you’re not a good deed.”
I forced myself to meet his gaze, even though every inch of me felt like it was unraveling. Because that line—you’re not a good deed—wasn’t just kindness. It was a choice. A truth. One I didn’t know what to do with.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Nothing I said would land right, not with my chest caving in like that.
So I looked away first. Not long—just long enough to catch my breath without giving everything away.
Smartass. Gorgeous, impossible smartass.
He hovered near the desk for a beat, like he was debating something, then came back over. Slow. He stood by the bed, close enough that I could see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, and smell the clean scent of soap clinging to him.
“You good?” His voice was low—not teasing now, but searching. “You’re paler than I like.”
That’s when his hand lifted. No rush. No warning. Just his fingers curling lightly around my wrist, like he was checking something. My pulse. Logical. Sensible. Except the way histhumb brushed across the inside of my wrist wasn’t sensible at all.
My breath snagged. My heart tripped like it forgot how to behave entirely.
“I’m fine,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing, mostly because the feel of him touching me sent heat curling everywhere it shouldn’t.
“Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”
He said it too easily, like it wasn’t about anything at all. Like I wasn’t two seconds from embarrassing myself under the covers.
“Gonna make that a full-time job?” My voice stayed steady. My pulse didn’t.
Daddy’s expression barely shifted, just a flicker—amusement, maybe something sharper underneath. “Careful,” he said, voice dropping too. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Maybe I didn’t know what I was really asking for, but it wouldn’t stop me from wanting to ask again. Just to see what trouble I could get myself in. Because with him, any kind of trouble would be the good kind.
The way his fingers stayed there wrapped around my wrist—comforting, warm, intentional—sent a shiver sliding down my spine. It wasn’t just a touch; it was ahold. A promise of how solid he could be if I let him.
And I wanted to let him.
“Uh huh, steady,” he murmured, gaze flicking down to where his hand covered mine.
Heat licked up the back of my neck. Of course he meant my pulse. The steady part. The firefighter in him. The protector in him. But that wasn’t how I heard it—not at all.
Steady.
My throat squeezed tight, stupid and aching, like my whole body was leaning into the words I wanted him to say but knew he wouldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But I wanted it anyway.
Wanted him to see me—not the kid who used to follow him around, not the reckless idiot who couldn’t even stay dry at a lake party—butme. Wanted his voice in that tone again, not careful, not professional, not patient.
Proud.
“You’re good at that,” I said before I could stop myself. “Keeping people steady.”
