Page 139 of Hunt Me, Daddy

The first two, I ignored out of mercy.

The third, I shut her laptop halfway.

Her eyes snapped to mine. “Do not.”

“You need sleep.”

“I slept.”

“You slept some. Then you woke up and immediately tried to dismantle an empire in my shirt.”

“It’s a good shirt.”

“It is an excellent shirt. You are still going to take a nap.”

“Ivan.”

The warning in her voice was sharp enough to draw blood from a lesser man.

I leaned back in my chair and looked at her properly. She was beautiful like this, though beauty was too fragile a word for the sight of her in my clothes with her hair pinned messily off her face and that stubborn intelligence still burning through exhaustion. My shirt fell to mid-thigh on her, loose at the collar, one sleeve slipping down her arm. Beneath the hem, she was completely bare.

The thought tightened my body.

It also softened something in me.

She belonged in my shirt. In my apartment. Near my desk. Wrapped in my blanket, drinking the coffee I made, glaring at me like every inch of care was an argument she intended to win.

“You can fight me,” I said. “Or you can nap.”

“I pick the secret third option.”

“There is no secret third option.”

“There’s always a secret third option.”

“Do you need a spanking first?”

Her eyes flashed.

There she was.

“Maybe I do,” she said.

A beat of silence passed between us.

Then I stood.

Kit’s chin lifted immediately. Pride first. Always. Even in my shirt, barefoot, tired enough to sway slightly when she pushed back from the desk. Especially then.

I went to her slowly, then I closed one hand gently around her arm. I drew her close, then used one hand to lift the hem of my shirt at the back and set my other hand on her bare bottom.

“Ivan,” she whispered.

“Last chance to be reasonable.”

“I hate reasonable.”

“Yes,” I said, and brought my hand down.