Sofie sits next to me and hooks an arm around Mila’s waist. “Good cuddle?”
Mila squeezes our necks. “Mama, Dadda hug My.”
I meet Sofie’s eyes and raise my eyebrows.
“She wants us to cuddle like we were before.”
Yeah, no. I don’t fucking think so.
“Okay, okay.” I wrap one arm around Mila’s tiny waist and the other around Sofie’s.
I tug Sof forward, and she stumbles, shrieking quietly. I laugh and slide my hand down to her ass once more. I force her toward me until Mila’s practically squashed between us and hug her tightly.
A sense of rightness overcomes me.
This.
This is how it’s supposed to be.
Both of them, both of my girls, wrapped in my arms first thing in the morning. Except they should be there last thing at night and every damn minute in between, too.
I want to hold them, breathe them in, be everything they need me to be. I want to be the guy that turns up with flowers for the woman and a toy for the baby just because. I want to be the guy that changes lightbulbs and puts up shelves. I want to hammer nails into the walls for pictures and build bookcases.
I want to read Mila bedtime stories and carry shitty diapers to the trash can at arm’s length.
I want to hand Sofie a coffee and tell her to lift her legs while I’m pushing the vacuum beneath her feet.
I want my girls to stay this way.
Mine. Always mine.
And it’s not about being just a dad anymore. It’s about being the kind of dad Mila deserves, someone who’s there all the time, ready for anything, ready to tackle whatever nightmares plague her or whatever bug is crawling up her leg.
It’s about being the kind of guy who’s always there, no matter what.
And that goes for Sofie, too.
That means putting aside the anger at her deception and reaching for what’s so fucking obviously still there.
“Mama? Kiss.” Mila smacks her lips against Sofie’s then turns to me. “Dadda kiss, too.”
I pout and she touches her tiny mouth to me with a giggle.
“Mama Dadda kiss!” She pushes our faces together.
Sofie’s eyes widen. “Ah, Mila, I don’t—”
I silence her by giving her the kiss Mila wants. Cupping the back of her neck, I hold her to me for a few seconds, then release her with a loud smack.
Mila giggles again, her legs kicking happily. Sofie stares at me in shock, her eyes yelling at me.
“Mila? Is my Mila awake?” Dad calls from the hallway.
“Poh!” Mila shouts, letting us go and clambering down the bed.
The door opens and Sofie turns her head. Dad looks at us shiftily, like he’s not sure if he should be or not, and I wave the quilt.
“Mila wanted a cuddle,” I explain. Half-explain, anyway.
“Oh. Sure.” He bends down and scoops her up. “You want breakfast?”
Mila nods. “Cookies?”
“Sure, but don’t tell Mama or Nana, okay?” He winks at Sofie.
She points a finger angrily. “Don’t you dare give her cookies for breakfast!”
Dad grins like a mischievous schoolboy and runs away with Mila. The door slams in his wake and Sofie’s mouth drops open.
She turns back to me. “He wouldn’t . . .”
I remember the times he snuck us boys cookies before Mom got to the kitchen to make us breakfast, and nod. “Oh, he has and he would and he will.”
“Dammit!” She clambers off me.
My arms dart out and I catch her around the waist. I slam her back against the bed.
“Conner!”
I lean over her and grin, a grin I’m sure much resembles my father’s. “Let her have the cookies. It won’t hurt her, Sof, and he’ll just do it next time she stays without you.”
“It’s cookies! Cookies aren’t breakfast!”
“Neither are kisses,” I murmur, leaning down, unable to resist that angry pout of hers. “But I’m pretty fuckin’ sure I could live off yours.”
She mumbles my name into my mouth, more in indignation than pleasure, I’m sure, but I don’t release her until my lips have swept across hers at least ten times.
I commit every curve, every pout, and every taste of her mouth to memory. Just in case, in some crazy fucking situation, I should forget what it feels like.
“I thought we weren’t talking,” Sofie huffs, sliding out from under me when I finally let her go.
I lie back on the bed and put my hands behind my head. “Kissin’ ain’t talkin’.”
“Oh, shut up.” She huffs again and grabs some denim shorts from her bag by the door.
I watch her as she hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her bed shorts and then pauses. She glances over her shoulder at me. I stare at her, unashamed. I’ve seen it all before, and I sure as hell want to see it all again.
“Do you mind?”
I drag my gaze from her ass to her eyes. “Not at all. Go ahead, princess.”
She narrows her eyes. “Shut your eyes, jackass.”
“Not happenin’, although there’s a bathroom across the hall if you wanna risk my brothers seeing you in those tiny shorts, which, by the way, don’t cover your butt as well as you think they do.”
She instantly looks down, then her eyes shoot in the direction of the door. She knows as well as I do that everyone in the house—except Leila—will be up.
“For Pete’s sake . . .” she mutters, grabbing her shirt and a pair of panties. She goes to the other side of Mila’s crib and sits on the floor.
I can see her fuzzily through the mesh sides as she pulls her shirt over her head and shrugs a clean one on.
“You know,” she grunts, obviously taking her shorts off, “the polite thing would be for you to leave the room.”
“Really? I think the polite thing would be for you to stand up.”
She freezes, her hands by her knees. “I’m not sure how many more times I can call you an asshole before it’s overkill.”
I laugh, but it dies in my throat when her hands hover around her feet, and white is replaced by black. Even through the mesh I can see lace.
I swallow hard, my cock standing to attention.
“Don’t mind me,” she says cheerily, using Mila’s crib to help her stand.
She’s half-bent, her ass facing me. Black lace panties hug the curve of it, and she bounces. She tugs her clean shorts up and over her behind.
I’m half relieved and half pissed off. And entirely fucking turned on.