Daddies And Their Naughty Angel
A brief rigidity that traveled through his torso into his hand holding a glass.
“Pasta, your favorite recipe,” Martha said, beaming.
“Sounds amazing.” I hopped onto the counter beside Vincent—close, my bare thigh inches from his arm—and stole a cherry tomato from Martha’s cutting board. I popped it in my mouth and licked the juice from my thumb.
Vincent moved to the other side of the kitchen.
I smiled, too bad for him, I’d already formulated the perfect plan while I’d been in the shower.
Soon, it would be showtime.