Page 68 of Off-Limits Daddy
“You know,” Daddy’s voice came, casual, just the faintest edge of smugness, “most people take lunch breaks.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
His heat got closer, slow and deliberate. He never rushed. Never made a sound unless he wanted me to hear it. By the time his chest brushed my back, I was already grinning.
“Paint’s wet,” I warned.
“So am I.”
That earned a quiet laugh from me, low and helpless. “Classy, Daddy.”
“Didn’t come here to be classy.”
His hands slipped beneath the hem of my T-shirt. Just fingertips at first, dragging lightly over the skin above my waistband. I shivered.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I murmured, still not looking back. “Didn’t you get assigned cleanup duty after Marco nearly set the grill on fire?”
“I ditched it.”
I finally turned. He was close—too close for someone who claimed to be just checking in. Sunglasses hooked on the collar of his shirt, a smudge of soot on one forearm like a badge of mischief.
“You ditched cleanup for me?”
He hummed, not quite yes, not quite no. “Maybe I wanted to see if you still blush when I tell you you’re doing a good job.”
My stomach flipped. “Daddy?—”
“You are, by the way,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Doing a good job.”
And then his mouth was on mine.
Quick at first—hungry, sharp-edged, a little desperate like he’d needed this all morning. Like I was water and he’d been parched. I kissed him back with everything I had, hands gripping his shirt, dragging him in closer. He tasted like heat and mint and too much restraint.
His hand slipped behind my neck, thumb grazing the underside of my jaw as his other palm planted against the wall, caging me in. The mural behind me was still drying. I didn’t care. Let it smear. Let it mark us.
I gasped into his mouth when his teeth grazed my lower lip. He swallowed the sound.
“I’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before someone notices I’m gone,” he said, breath hot against my cheek.
“What’re you gonna do with them?”
“Thinking about bending you over the supply cabinet.”
I choked out a laugh. “You’re not serious.”
His grin was slow, wicked. “Only ’cause you’d squeak too loud.”
“You’re the worst.”
“You’re hard,” he murmured, hand dragging down between us, grazing the front of my jeans.
My breath hitched.
So yeah. Maybe I was.
I caught his wrist. “Fifteen minutes?”
