I tug on the end of the shirt he loaned me and hover in the space between the living room and kitchen. The shirt is way too big. It hangs over my shorts and makes it look as if I’m not wearing pants.

Clay cooks at the stove. The scent of charring bacon wafts over to me and makes my belly gurgle.

“Sit down, Katie,” he says without turning.

My breath catches, and my mouth opens to speak, but then I close it. He’s bossy but back to himself, and I’m back to me, and it’s odd.

Odder that normal should be so strange.

I step into the kitchen and glance at the table set for one. Now he’s cooking breakfast for me?

I clear my throat. “Clay?” It feels awkward to call him by his first name, but given the bathing and ejaculation that’s transpired, it’d be more awkward not to.

He glances over his shoulder.

My fingers twist in the bottom of the shirt. “I can’t stay.”

He frowns and looks at the plate, before setting a sausage, bacon, and two eggs on it. “You can eat.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. “Class starts in an hour, and I need to go home and change first. I can’t go like this.”

He takes the plate to the table instead of the counter. “Come here.”

I blink and swallow. This isn’t like before. He’s not being Daddy, he’s just his bossy self. Me, I don’t know what I’m doing or how to respond. Play happened in fearless intuition and honest fantasy. But now, in the cold reality of normalcy, I have absolutely no idea how to behave.

I go over to him.

He looks down at me then pries the fabric from my twisting hands.

Holy fuck, are we going at it again?

He undoes the bottom buttons, all the way up to my midriff, then crosses the ends and pulls the shirt tight at my waist.

My chest floods with air.

“There.” He knots the ends a second time. “Now you don’t need to go home and change.”

I glance down at myself. Well. I’m presentable enough with the shirt tied and his clean white socks folded down to my ankles.

He pulls back a dining chair. I sit on the soft, padded seat. He slides me in on the chair then retrieves two cups of coffee from the counter and returns to sit at the head of the table next to me.

I pick up the knife and fork. “You really didn’t need to cook for me, toast is enough—”

“Don’t you like eggs?” He glides my coffee over the tabletop.

“I like them.” My stomach gurgles again. In fact, I love eggs.

He picks up his cup. “Don’t you like bacon?”

I blink. “I like bacon.”

“Sausage?” He drinks.

“I like sausage, too, I just meant you didn’t need to go to the effort just because I—” I clear my throat and glance away.

Because I let you come on my chest. Let you bathe me. Cried in your lap.

Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of all the reactions I had, and my face gets hot. Was I too much?

Over the top?

My lungs burn. Casual is my signature style. The last time I got off before today was six months ago when I rubbed one out myself, while riding Chef Neil in the back of his station wagon. Then refused to give him my number. He wasn’t happy, but I don’t have time to mess around with a guy who’s needy. I’m not soppy or gushy or clingy or even romantic when it comes to boys and sex. This is all so unlike me, it’s frightening.

Not that anything that happened today was with a boy.

“Katie.” He says my name sentence-long again, but this time, it’s not half as bossy as usual.

I adjust my grip on the fork and look at him.

“If you like eggs and bacon and sausage, and you are hungry, which I know you are, then eat.” He leans a little closer and looks at me so hard I tingle from the attention. “And let me worry about how much effort you deserve from me.”

The muscles in my chest deflate. God, the things he says. We’re not playing right now, but it’s so close to it that I’m compelled.

I cut up the sausage, the bacon, the eggs, and stab a piece of each with my fork and shove it into my mouth. I chew and eat and eat.

His breakfast is great.

He watches me and drinks his coffee. “I didn’t know you take classes.”

I swallow. “Yes, I take patisserie.”

“And you do mornings here and night nanny.” He rubs his chin. “And don’t you also babysit at home?”

I nod and scoop up some egg. Wow. His memory is excellent. I think I mentioned that one time when I first started with him, and we talked work hours. “But I only do that when Mom’s shifts line up with class and picking up the twins; otherwise, Jake stays with the lady next door while the older kids are at school.”

He leans back. “How many siblings do you have?”

I chew slowly. What is even going on now? He can suddenly speak in full sentences. He can suddenly ask questions that aren’t directly related to something he wants done. “Six.”

His eyes widen fractionally. Yeah, we get that reaction.

“Your parents must be busy?”

“Mom.” I sigh and focus on the plate. Yep, we get that a lot, too. I poke a piece of sausage. “Mom’s busy.”

“But your dad’s not busy?”

I stare at the fork and eat the sausage to stifle the groan. How does conversation always wind up here? “Wouldn’t know. Never met the obviously genetically blessed dude.”

Silence expands.

I glance up. His expression has gone too thoughtful. Squinty times a million.

Oh, no…

“No, nope.” I drop the fork on the plate. The clatter rings through the room. “I don’t have secret daddy issues.”

His squint remains just the same.

My mind flashes to the moments after the bath, and I shift in the seat and hold up my hands. “Okay, maybe there’re some feelings, but it’s not how I see you thinking it.”

Now his frown gets real. “How, exactly, am I thinking?”

“I’m not going around banging older dudes, hunting for a daddy, if that’s what you assume.” I shove the plate away and shake my head. Of course, he thinks that. I practically begged for this. “Well, I have banged older dudes before, not as old as you, though—”

His scowl deepens. Fuck. I lick my lips. Poor guy is only thirty-six, and from the looks of him, I just made him feel sixty-three.

Stop talking, Katie.

“Not that you’re that old, but what I’m trying to say is, that’s not what today was about.” I wipe my mouth on the napkin then fold it in half. “If anything, I think it’s just easier for me to try something I think most girls would find very sexy.”

His expression flattens. “And you found what we did today very sexy?”

“Well, yes.” I drop the napkin. Oh, god. “Didn’t you?”

He’s back to looking overly thoughtful, and I want to press my finger to the crease between his brows and rub it out.

“Yes, Katie, I found what we did very sexy.”

I exhale. Thank fuck. “Good, then we don’t need to over-think something that was just some fun.”

Fun. I nearly snort. Don’t think Clay knows the meaning of the word. Half of what he pays me for is to play with his dog, and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t know how to do it himself.

“But, Katie.” He stares at me again. “It isn’t something that was.”

I shake my head. What?

“It’s something that is.”

His direct gaze makes me hot, as if I’m in the bath again.

“I want to fuck you, Katie.”

Sweet baby Jesus.

I press a hand to my chest, where it feels like an artery has clogged in four places. Not that his statement comes as a surprise. If anything, I’m shocked he didn’t already do it while I was naked in his bathroom. “Okay.”

“I want to fuck you while you call me Daddy.”

I’m stuck on the way he says that word—with a rumble that stretches out between us and makes my body respond.

My pussy throbs again.

The way he says it has about eighteen different layers. He’s not trying to be my non-existent father; he wants to be my daddy. The man who’s going to take care of me.

Protect me.

Punish me.

Make me scream.

My hand closes on my chest. Oh, boy. “I’m good with that.”

Isn’t that already obvious? What else do I need to do to prove it?

The way his jaw works at my answer, I’m not all that sure if he’s thrilled or infuriated.

“Good. Then whilst we’re discussing this we need to set some boundaries,” he says.

My nose wriggles, and I pick at a bit of toast that’s not hot enough to enjoy anymore. Boundaries. Such as, don’t-fall-in-love-with-me-silly-little-girl? Of course, he wants boundaries. He’s rich and famous and gorgeous, and who the hell am I? “All right.”

“Are you on contraceptives?”

The toast sticks in my throat. I cough. Talk about getting right down to it.

“Yeah, isn’t everyone?” I take a gulp of coffee to wash it down. “But I still want protection.”

His voice drops an octave. “Is that negotiable?”

I wipe my mouth. There’s no denying I’ve fucked a fair few people. I’ve had the odd guy try to whine me into not using anything. I’ve never had one ask me point blank, upfront, beforehand, for a way around it.

His gaze moves over me, to the knot on the shirt he tied, and holy shit, I can practically see what he’s thinking—he’s picturing coming inside me.

I drain the entire remaining coffee in the cup. Is it negotiable? Sure, if we want to book some appointments, but at this point, it’s putting the cart before the horse. I rarely date someone more than a few times. My life isn’t very relationship friendly.

He needs to chill.

“Yes.” I smile at him as wide as I can. “After our wedding, you can come in me all the time.”

His gaze crashes back to my face, and his mouth opens, but he shuts it again.

I bite my cheek to stop from laughing. Poor guy has forgotten how to be teased.

“I’m joking, Clay,” I say then school my expression to dead serious. “I’ll still make you wrap it when we’re married.”

He blinks twice, the cogs in his head so not seeming to keep up, that now I can’t help giggling.

He frowns. So damn serious all the time.

“Still joking.” I wave a hand as if I’m done. “How am I going to make seven little Clays if you don’t give me your baby juice?”

He wipes over his mouth with his hand.

I laugh so hard my abs hurt, and I tug at the waistband of my too-tight shorts.

He shakes his head, but there’s the slightest twitch to his mouth. The slightest smile. “You’re being silly, Katie.”

I shrug. “Well, sometimes I am silly.”

“I haven’t seen you like this before.” His attention turns softer on me.

My tongue darts across my lips. “That’s because you were always too cranky and brooding to talk to me.”

His expression slips.

Slips so swiftly and into such sadness, my stomach drops.

What did I say?

He glances away from me, to the table, and this big, strong man, this athlete, doesn’t look so larger-than-life anymore.

“You’re talking to me now.” I reach for the hand he has on the table and set my fingers over his. “I like talking with you.”

And I do. In the few moments we have been, I’ve already seen Clay doesn’t waste time saying the polite thing; he says the real thing. The true thing. He makes me feel like I could talk.

I could talk, and not only would he listen, but I could believe every word of his response because that response would not be fettered.

He looks at me again, and there’s something there, something silent. Something that makes me ache so badly I have to break the moment.

“Okay, so, condoms, but you can come on me.” I pull back.

His attention shifts, and his brow arches. “Wherever I want?”

Oh, boy. There’re areas I could prohibit, but I have a flash of him coming on my chest and can’t bring myself to set those kinds of limits. “Sure.”

He smiles.

I laugh again. So he can smile. His teeth flash, and my chest constricts. That smile is knock-a-girl-on-her-ass gorgeous.

And I remember it.

My laughter dies. I remember that smile from pictures of before I knew him. Back in the days before Clay Colson had any sad nickname. They’re still there, on the internet for anyone who searches for them to see.

I’ve looked at them several times, and every time I do, it makes me feel evil. Spying on his old self like that.

“I have one of those boundary things.”

His smile dissipates, falling back to his usual straight face as though it were never there. “Okay.”

“We can’t do this while I’m on the clock. It has to be on my own time.”

He takes a deep breath. “When are you free?”

“I have Friday nights off if you want to see me then.” I link my fingers together and stare at my nails. “Or I can do tomorrow morning for a few hours after I’m finished with Dixie.”

Friday night like a date. My shoulders curl. This is not dating. He may not want to see me then. On a dating night of the week. He wants boundaries, after all. My tongue darts between my lips. Shit, even with all the stuff we did today, the one thing we didn’t do was kiss.

“May I see you both?”

I glance up and tuck my hair behind my ear. Really? My belly flutters. “Yes, you may.”

His mouth curves again, a hint of a smile.

I scoot the chair back and stand. “Well, I’d better get going.”

“We haven’t finished talking.”

I almost groan. Knew it. I knew he’d be weird and make us talk about the sex more. I look at the clock. “I have like, fifteen more minutes.”

“Then let’s not waste words. Sit down, Katie.”

So damn bossy

I drop back down into the chair.

“I want to take care of you.”

I shiver. He used his daddy voice on me.

“That is easiest to do if I know what you want, and I know what you don’t want.”

I rest my chin in my hand but can’t really look at him. This feels almost like being in the bath again.

And there’s so much more of that I want.

So I spend the next fifteen minutes telling him all the dirty things I’d let him, only him, do to me.