Page 6 of Pucking Daddy

The touch is gentle. Careful. Completely at odds with everything else about him.

It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t understand.

His thumb grazes just beneath my ear, lingering.

The touch is barely there, just the lightest brush of skin against skin, but it sends a slow, electric ripple down my spine. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat, like my body forgets what it’s supposed to do next.

We don’t speak, and I feel frozen in place. Not because I don’t want this, but because I want it too much.

My eyes flick up to his, and that’s a mistake.

They’re even darker now. Focused. Like he’s watching every tiny reaction, clocking everything about me.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I’ve never been this turned on in my life, and he’s barely even touched me.

What kind of magic is this?

My thoughts scatter, useless and disjointed.

This is insane.

I just met him.

I’m leaving tomorrow.

I should not be standing in a dim hallway letting a stranger undo me with one touch.

And yet—I don’t move.

His thumb shifts, just a fraction, tracing the smallest arc beneath my ear, and my stomach drops low, heat pooling in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to grab onto something.

“Breathe, Zara,” he murmurs. It’s barely more than a whisper.

Oh.

Right.

Breathing.

At his quiet command, my body listens before my brain catches up. I pull in a shaky breath, and it feels like it scrapes all the way down, like I’m suddenly aware of every inch of myself at once.

His gaze tracks my breathing, taking in everything.

A lopsided grin tugs at his mouth, slow and knowing, like he just witnessed something he liked.

“Good girl.”

The words land low in my chest—and then lower.

Heat rushes through me, sharp and immediate, and before I can overthink it—before I can talk myself out of this—I slide my hand up his chest, curling my fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

His grin fades and his eyes darken, focus snapping back to me like I just crossed some invisible line.

Then his hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, firm and warm, his fingers threading just slightly into my hair.

My pulse spikes.