Page 67 of Off-Limits Daddy
My chest pulled tight. Not in fear. Just in awe.
I cupped his cheek. “I’ve been falling.”
His smile bloomed slow and sure. “Guess we’re both doomed.”
“Guess so.”
We stayed like that for a while—limbs tangled, morning sun climbing the walls, nothing between us but quiet and heat.
And for once, I didn’t feel the need to run from it.
TWENTY-ONE
ARI
Light caught the fresh paint along the trim as I opened the rec room door, the faint chemical bite of floor polish trailing in after me. Boone’s new light fixture cast soft shadows across the mural wall. The vending machine—thank you, Marco—hummed quietly in the corner, already half-stocked with off-brand sodas and leftover Gatorades. Someone—probably Trent—had propped a half-working speaker on the windowsill, like that would magically fix the broken aux port. It wouldn’t.
This was starting to feel like something. Not just a room. A place people wanted to sit in, maybe laugh in, crash in when a shift ran too long, and nobody had the energy to drive home.
I dropped my backpack in the corner and crouched to uncap a paint can, already humming to myself. Two weeks in and the mural was maybe two-thirds done, the skyline taking shape in layered lines and warm blocks of earth tone. I'd blended in hints of fire, subtle at first, but unmistakable the closer you looked. The captain had nodded with approval. Marco said he got goosebumps.
Daddy hadn’t said anything.
Just stood in the doorway two nights ago, arms crossed, watching like he was memorizing something.
He came in when he could. Never announced himself. Never knocked. One minute I was up a ladder touching up the sky, the next his hands were sliding around my waist, warm and confident, breath grazing the back of my neck.
“You missed a spot,” he’d murmured, voice low.
"Where?"
"Right here," he'd said, pressing his mouth to the curve of my jaw.
I was still thinking about it.
Abouthim.
When he was on shift, I kept my head down. Got work done. Tried not to check the time every twenty minutes like some lovesick idiot. When he wasn’t? I got less done. But smiled more. Let him pin me to a wall once—okay, twice—when we were sure no one was coming down the hall.
“You keep kissing me like that,” I’d whispered, breathless, “and I’m gonna paint a mural of your dick on this wall.”
He’d grinned. “Make sure it’s flattering.”
I pressed my hand to that same spot on the wall now, smirking to myself. Still warm from the morning sun filtering through the window. Still soft from yesterday’s second coat.
I’d gotten here early. Wanted time to work alone. Not because I didn’t like the help—Boone could patch drywall like a pro, and Trent was way too excited about hanging hooks—but because I likedthis. The rhythm. The focus.
And, maybe, because part of me was hoping he’d sneak in behind me again.
Ten more minutes passed. No boots in the hallway. No voice murmuring something dirty against my ear.
I dipped the roller into the tray and pressed it to the wall.
Work now. Fantasize later.
Footsteps padded across the floor behind me—quiet enough to almost miss—then the door creaked shut with a soft click.
I didn’t turn around. Just kept rolling the last edge of the top trim, the angle awkward but doable, even with my heart suddenly thudding harder.
