Page 133 of Scouting the Single Dad

His thumbs slide beneath the band, stroking the undersides until my nipples pebble tight through the fabric. “You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice rough. “But I want you prettier.”

“Then take it off.” It comes out breathless, so needy I don’t recognize myself.

This is not me. Grady and I . . .

Haven’t had sex yet.

I’m still unsure how I feel about him. And yet . . .

The cups of my bra fall, and cool air meets hot skin, and then his mouth is there, warm and wet, tongue circling, sucking my nipples; I gasp. My hips rock, and he groans, palms sliding to my ass to drag me down harder against the thick line of him.

“Grady,” I whisper, dizzy. “God.”

“I know.” His hands frame my face, he kisses deep, then his hands lower again, hungry like he can’t choose where he wants me most. “You feel incredible riding me like this.” He pants. “Think about how good it would feel with me inside you.”

Inside me.

“I feel—” Greedy. The denim is torture—in our way—and I want more but not all of it . . .

I tug at his belt, clumsy with urgency. He lifts his hips so I can shove his jeans down to mid-thigh; the bulging erection strains against dark compression briefs, thick and tempting. I settle over him again, and the first grind—thin cotton against thin cotton—rips a broken sound from both of us.

“Jesus, Layla.” His hands span my waist, guiding me. “Keep doing that . . .”

But the second I feel that thick pressure beneath me—his body responding, mine answering—I swear my vision blurs. His head tips back against the couch, throat flexing when he swallows, and it hits me: This man is beautiful.

Safe.

A really good guy.

The kind of guy you want to bring home to your parents and introduce to your friends.

And he deserves better than being the guy I use to forget another.

Shit.

I catch his wrist when he tries to slide his hand between our bodies, his knuckles grazing the heat soaking through my leggings, and he mutters a curse, eyes darkening.

“Fuck, you’re wet.”

I want so desperately to feel more when I kiss him. I want to lose myself in how delicious he smells and how easy it is to be with him. I want to move on.

Still. Hayes’s face flashes across my mind—sun on his skin, the way he called me good girl, the way my body still remembers him—and guilt spears straight through the pleasure.

Grady’s hand cups the back of my neck, slow and careful, and the other slips low like he’s asking permission with his touch. I gasp anyway, because even his gentleness is overwhelming. I am full of too many emotions right now, most of them guilt.

“Layla . . .” he murmurs when I pull back. “Hey. Look at me.”

I do.

And that makes it worse.

His eyes aren’t greedy.

They’re hopeful.

Open.

Honest.