Page 117 of Dark King Daddy

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” Nikita said. Arkady nodded around a bite of apple.

Daniil looked at me. His eyes moved across my face, my hair, the collar of my blouse. I felt the inspection on my skin—each point of contact warm and specific. He set down his phone.

“Nikita. Arkady.”

He eyed them both, but didn’t give any instruction. Seems like none was needed.

Nikita closed his tablet. Arkady dropped the apple core into the bin. They left through the kitchen door without protest, though Nikita shot me a look over his shoulder that contained an entire editorial.

The door closed. The kitchen was quiet.

Daniil poured a second coffee. He placed it on the island in front of the stool beside him.

“Sit.”

I sat. I drank. The coffee was good—strong, dark, full-bodied. I wrapped both hands around the cup and let the heat seep into my fingers.

“Did you sleep?” he asked.

“Some.”

The dream flickered behind my eyes. His hand in my hair. His mouth. The things he’d said. The things I’d said back. I drank more coffee.

“I have a question,” he said.

“Only one?”

“Do you have plans this evening?”

I set down the cup. The question was casual. His tone was not. There was something beneath it—a deliberateness, a weight that the words themselves didn’t carry.

Tonight. We were going to have sex tonight. I could feel it. My pussy could feel it.

“No.”

“Good. Because I’m taking my wife to dinner.” He paused. “Provided she accepts.”

“Your wife.” I let the word sit between us. “Is this a diplomatic event? Should I brief Anton?”

“No captains. No clients. No security briefings over the antipasto.”

“Then where will the captains be sitting?”

“Somewhere else.”

I looked at him. He was standing close—closer than he usually stood in the kitchen, closer than the morning required. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms. The t-shirt from last night was gone, replaced by a dark sweater I hadn’t seen him change into. He must have come back early, showered, dressed.

“Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’ll choose the restaurant.”

“And what should I wear?”

His eyes held mine. The ice-blue had darkened at the edges, the way it did when he was being careful about what he said next because what he wanted to say was not careful at all.

“Something sexy,” he said. “Something I won’t want to wait to rip off.”

The sentence landed low in my body. The ache from the dream pulsed once, hard.