Page 59 of Merciless Daddy

“To sleep when she is exhausted.”

My hands remained at my sides.

“To tell me when she is frightened instead of cutting people open with a brooch.”

“That seems less fun.”

“For you.”

“What about for you?”

“I found it . . . memorable.”

Her knees opened a fraction.

The movement was small. Deliberate.

I could have stepped closer. One inch would have put my thigh between hers.

I did not.

She reached up and caught my tie.

The same gesture as before. This time slower. Her fingers wrapped the silk and drew me down until my mouth hovered over hers.

“I’m giving you permission,” she whispered.

Her breath smelled faintly of my whisky.

Everything in me pulled toward her.

I wanted her mouth. I wanted my hand in her hair and her body bent over the desk, those fitted trousers dragged down over her hips. I wanted to discover whether her sharp tongue went quiet when praised or became worse. I wanted to put rules around her until she could rest inside them.

I wanted to ask her to call me Daddy.

No.

Not ask.

I wanted to hear the word escape because her body recognized me before her pride did.

My mouth stopped inches from hers.

Her grip tightened on my tie.

“Sal.”

The name nearly finished me.

I looked at her lips, then her eyes.

“No,” I said.

I took the whisky away from her because taking her mouth would have been easier.

Her fingers remained around my tie.

I removed them one at a time.