Page 48 of Merciless Daddy

Blood went low. My hand tightened around the coffee cup. Every disciplined thought in my head narrowed to the bare strip of thigh between cashmere and sock.

She noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her gaze dropped to my hand around the cup. Then it traveled slowly over my rolled sleeves, my open collar, and my face. She looked at the cut she had made and let her mouth curve.

“You look terrible,” she said.

“You look happy about that. Figures.”

“I slept again.”

“Glad to hear it. I have to say, I noticed you.”

“It’s annoying.”

“You slept on my floor with my dog on top of you. It was difficult to miss.”

She came into the kitchen. Slowly. The jumper shifted against her legs with every step. She knew exactly what she was doing now. I saw it in the way she reached above her head for a mug she did not need from a cabinet she knew was empty.

The hem rose.

Not far. Far enough.

Christ.

She glanced back over her shoulder and caught me looking.

“Something wrong, Scordato?”

“No.”

“You’re holding that cup like it insulted your mother.”

I set it down before the handle broke.

Her smile widened by half a degree. Victory.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said.

“A little.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Only when it causes trouble.”

She put the mug on the counter and leaned one hip against the marble. Her eyes moved to the key.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing for you.”

“That was not my question.”

“I know. But even so, that’s the answer you’re getting.”

Her brows lifted. “You’re very commanding before breakfast.”