Page 23 of Daddy's Heart

His chest lifts with a low chuckle. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

My turn to chuckle. “I don’t think harder is your problem.”

"Not with you around, babe.” He kisses the top of my head. “Storm's over. But you're not going anywhere yet."

“I have clients today,” I answer, making a little circle with my fingers on the broken heart tattoo.

"It’s early. I’ll make sure you get to town on time." His hand slides down my spine. "Right now, Daddy's going to feed you."

Feed me. Not cook breakfast or grab a bite. Feed me.

"I can make something," I offer.

"No." The word comes out firm. "You don't cook in my house, baby girl. That's my job."

Before I can argue, he's sliding out of bed and padding to the dresser. He pulls out a flannel shirt and tosses it to me.

"Put this on. Nothing underneath."

I slip into it, and it falls to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. The soft fabric brushes against my bare skin, and I catch him watching the way it drapes over my curves with hungry eyes.

In the kitchen, he moves with easy efficiency, wearing just a pair of those plaid lumberboxers, the outline of his hard cock keeping a smile permanently plastered on my face.

He starts to pull ingredients from the refrigerator. I perch on a stool at the counter, hyperaware of how the shirt rides up my thighs, watching his hands as he works, the smell of fresh coffee already assailing my nose as he grabs two cups.

Not mugs. Cups. Actual china cups.

“Coffee?” he asks, barely turning his head.

“Yes, but—” I’m about to tell him about my dairy allergy when he pulls the carton from the fridge. “You drink vanilla oat milk?”

“Nope. You do, though.”

He pours the drinks and sets one in front of me, and I can’t help the frown on my face.

"You know," I say, taking a sip of the coffee, "most people don't stock up on oat milk they don’t even drink."

"Most people don't plan ahead."

"Is that what this is? Planning ahead?"

He looks up from the stove, something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Hoping ahead, maybe."

My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to love.

My phone buzzes on the counter, I note the time is 7:15 and I reach for it as Logan's name flashes on the screen.

"I should probably—"

But before I can finish, Colt's hand covers mine, plucking the phone away.

"Logan?" he asks, reading the screen.

"He's probably worried about the storm. I usually check in after a call in the evening."

Colt's thumb slides across the screen, tapping the speaker.

“Girl—” Logan’s voice starts, but Colt cuts him off.

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