Page 38 of His Little Angel

“Thanks,” I say flatly, taking it.

His naked self sits next to me on the bed, big dick swinging around semi-hard. I try not to look at it, but I swear it’s the one looking at me.

“You’re late for work,” I mumble.

He shrugs, taking a sip. “I’m not going.”

My eyebrows hit my hairline. He seems to be full of surprises this morning. In the three years I worked for him, he never skipped a day.

“Since when do you skip work?”

“Since today.” Another sip. “Since I was in your bed,” he adds.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He smiles lazily. “Wanted to spend the day with you.”

“Thrilling,” I deadpan.

“You always this sweet in the morning?”

“Yes.” I flutter my lashes dramatically.

He tries again. “What do you want to do today?”

“Nothing.”

“We could go out—”

“No.”

“Breakfast somewhere? You love pancakes.”

The fact that he remembers warms my blood, but I trap the butterflies before they escape.

“I said no.”

He lifts a brow. “You always this grumpy without caffeine?”

“I have caffeine,” I say, raising the mug. “See? You just deserve the attitude.”

“Did you sleep badly? I’m not apologizing for hogging you all night—you should get used to it.”

“No.”

How can I ever get used to it if he leaves every chance he gets?

“Are you sore?”

“No.”

“Did I do something?”

“Yes,” I sigh.

He sets his mug down carefully, then takes mine from my hand and places it beside his. “Talk.”

“No.”