Page 128 of Scouting the Single Dad

No.

God, Grady is warm. Tastes like red wine.

When he groans, the sound rockets straight to my vagina. I step forward until his back is against the counter without meaning to, laughter catching in my throat and dissolving when he kisses me; he didn’t plan on me being bold, but he’s absolutely here for it.

Excited.

Hopeful.

I didn’t expect this. Not with him, not tonight, not while the ghost of someone else clings to the edges of my thoughts. I’m desperate now to get the ghost of Hayes out of my mind, and Grady’s kisses are the perfect way to do it.

More, more, more . . .

“Trying real hard not to rush,” he admits, forehead to mine. “But you’re making that difficult.”

Heat nips at my skin. “A little difficult is fine.”

He lifts me onto the counter with a little gasp of surprise from both of us, and I hook my knees around him without thinking, pulling him in, letting the new angle turn sparks into heat.

His hands are big and strong at my waist, thumbs stroking juuust under my sweater, testing future territory. I fist the front of his flannel and pull him closer until there’s no polite space left.

“I like your hands there,” I whisper.

“Here?” He slides them higher along my ribs.

“Yes.” The word is a breathless wisp of permission.

“I keep thinking about how we only met this morning,” he says, kissing the corner of my mouth like it’s fragile. “And now I’ve got you on my counter.”

“Weird coincidence—I was thinking the same thing.”

He drags his mouth along my throat, and I tip my head, offering. The scrape of his stubble, the careful press of his teeth, the slow stroke of his thumbs . . .

I rock forward, chasing the pressure, trying to push memories of Hayes out of my mind when Grady swears softly, forehead tipping to mine as we find a slow, filthy rhythm that’s nothing but friction and want and the wet sound of our mouths. Every place he touches feels new; every place he hasn’t touched yet is curious.

There’s hope for me, yet . . .

Still. Part of me wonders why I’m here.

Part of me wonders what Hayes is doing.

And Benny.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Grady says, voice shredded. “I’m trying so hard to make a good impression.”

No worries. “You’re being such a gentleman.”

“Am I?” He smiles against my lips. “Because all I can think about is touching you.”

“Less thinking. More doing.”

I need to know—for science.

His palm drifts under my sweater, heat to heat, dragging the fabric up my ribs, palm cupping me through the lace of my bra—teasing me—thumb brushing over the hardened peak of my nipple till I gasp and arch into his hand. Grady’s fingers ease beneath the thin lace, skin on skin, beneath my shirt.

“You’re unreal.”

“You’re very real,” I murmur, sliding a hand under his shirt to rake my nails lightly down his back. Goose bumps chase my touch.