Page 61 of Claimed By Daddy

“Maybe. But you’re going to be—” he leans in close, his lipsbrushing my cheek and traveling toward my jaw—“so fucking of full of me that I’m dripping from you during dinner.”

“Daddy?” I chirp, swinging my legs lightly, my heels tapping against the cabinets.

“Yes, princess,” he exhales with an annoyed sigh.

“I’m pretty sure your sauce is burning.”

He gives the sauce one last stir and turns the burner off, quickly returning to me. Kissing me before I can say a word, his mouth is warm as he steals the air from my lungs. It’s the kind of kiss that makes the rest of the apartment disappear—the scent of garlic, the simmering pot, even the fact that I’m half sitting on a cold granite counter.

“I don’t think this is very chef-like behavior,” I quip when he pulls back from our kiss, giving him a mock-scolding look.

Enzo stands between my knees, his hands firmly gripping my hips. He tips his head slightly, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “It’s not. But I’ve decided I’m hungry for something other than pasta.”

My cheeks flush, and I roll my eyes even as I lean into him. “You’re impossible.”

He leans in until his lips graze my jaw. “You love it.”

I do. God, I do.

The kitchen is warm with the scent of the meal he was preparing, but all I can focus on is the warmth of his hands, the closeness of him, the way his breath fans against mycollarbone. I run my fingers up the front of his shirt, letting them lightly clutch the fabric. “Dinner is going to be ruined.”

“Worth it,” he says without hesitation, his mouth finding mine again. I sink into him like I’ve done countless times before, though the butterflies still flutter in my stomach like it’s the first. His lips trail down to my neck, and I tilt my head, giving him more space—more of me. My hands slide into his hair, lacing through it and curling around his locks as he presses a kiss beneath my ear. My breath catches as his hands find the small of my back, and he pulls me into him “I think this is the first time the apartment’s been truly quiet.”

“You saying I should shut up?” I quip, unable to hold back my smile.

“No,” he laughs. “Just thinking I know of a few sweet sounds that could fill this too-quiet space.”

He leans down and kisses me again, and when his hands slide around my neck, I stop caring about dinner being ruined. Our kiss goes from soft to hungry, his hands tightening on my waist, until my back is arching and my legs wrap loosely around him.

His lips trail down my jaw to the hollow of my throat, and I gasp, my hands fisting the fabric of his shirt. I reach for the buttons, and I tear at them with need, hastily freeing him from his shirt. My hands roam over his chiseled bare chest, and when he pulls back, his eyes are darker—now focused and determined.

Enzo lifts me off the counter, his lips not once leaving my skin. He carries me through the apartment we’ve furnishedtogether, and I know—no matter how chaotic our world may get again—we’ll always come back to this.

To each other.

To home.

ABOUT A WEEK LATER

The penthouse buzzes with conversation and the clinking of silverware against plates as the four of us enjoy dinner. Eavan’s smile lights up the room, her eyes sparkling as she teases Cillian about his inability to cook anything that doesn’t come from a takeout box or a tin can. Cillian, ever the good sport, throws a playful jab back, and the room erupts in genuine laughter.

As the evening unfolds, and the liquor continues to flow, the conversation is effortless. We talk about everything and nothing—plans for the future, the absurdity of some of ourpast escapades, and the simple joys of being together without looking over our shoulders. It’s a rare moment of peace, a fleeting glimpse into a life that almost feels normal.

An unexpected knock at the door shatters the calm. Gunnar’s voice follows, muffled by the wall separating us. He’s the last of the watchful eyes we hired to keep an eye on my princess. Jagger, Hawk, and Damon each left over the last couple of weeks, their presence no longer needed. Gunnar is tidying up the last of their work and ensuring our security is in good standing before returning to his own life. “Hey, sorry to interrupt. I ran into a guy in the lobby looking to speak with Cillian,” he apologizes, stepping into the kitchen. Lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he continues, “I frisked him in the elevator.”

I exchange glances with Eavan, a flicker of concern passing between us. Cillian looks equally puzzled, his brow furrowing. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

I set my glass of wine down and wave Cillian off when he starts to rise from the table. “Eat,” I insist—and gesture the same to Gunnar, inviting him to join us. “I’ll take care of it.”

Rising from the table, I adjust the cuff of my shirt as I make my way to the door. When I open it, I find a man standing there—mid-forties, cheap haircut, dressed in an off-the-rack, poorly fitted, and wrinkled suit. His posture is rigid and his expression serious. “Mr. Roseti?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge of confusion.

I nod, stepping aside to let him in since Gunnar confirmed he isn’t carrying. “That’s me. What can I dofor you?”

The man hesitates for a moment, checking the number on the door. “I was looking for Mr. O’Brien.”

I glance back toward the entry to the kitchen, where my family is still seated. “He’s in here,” I say, leading the way.

As we walk down the foyer, the man’s gaze shifts, and his eyes widen slightly upon seeing Nikolai sitting at the table. “Mr. Romanov.” His voice is tinged with surprise.

---