Page 151 of Scouting the Single Dad

“I’m such a lucky girl . . .”

Fuck yeah, she is.

By the time we reach the doorway, we’re both breathing like we ran a mile and half of our clothes are gone, down to our underwear. Her bra and panties.

I get the door shut with my heel and flip the lock, because I am a man who learns the hard way, having suffered through experiences like a preteen barging in to ask where the glitter glue went.

“And here’s where the magic happens.” I hope.

“Two hours,” she reminds me, voice shaking. “Don’t be cute.”

“Baby, I’m efficient.”

I slide down her belly and catch the band of her panties in my teeth, and she laughs—a shocked, delighted sound that punches heat through my chest. I peel them slow, kissing every new inch, and she’s already trembling by the time I toss them and spread her under my hands.

“New room, new rule,” I murmur, shoving my boxers down. “We christen everything.”

“Everything?”

Everything.

Two strides, and her back meets the dresser; cologne bottles rattle as I set her on top. She’s laughing into my mouth until I angle my hips and the laugh turns into a gasp.

“Hold on,” I murmur, spreading her legs, one palm splayed at the small of her back, the other guiding me inside. “There you go—”

I push in slow, the kind of slow that makes us both swear, and then we’re locked—her heels digging into me, my forehead pressed to hers, both of us trying to remember how to breathe.

“God,” she whispers, eyes glassy, smug smile tugging at her lips.

She tips her hips, and it’s game over; I find a rhythm—deep and deliberate—until she starts to pulse around me and beg for faster. I oblige, bracing one hand beside her head, the other hooking behind her knee to open her up for me.

“I’m gonna love fucking you in this house.” Another thrust, deeper. “On this dresser.” I tip my chin at the bed. “Against the closet door with your hands over your head. Bent over the boxes you haven’t unpacked, fucking you from behind. On the rug.”

She shivers so hard the cologne bottles rattle again. “Keep talking.”

“In the bathroom.” I kiss her throat, her mouth. “In the shower, your moans echoing against the tile. I’ll put you against the wall, soap on your skin, my mouth everywhere the water can’t reach.”

Fucking you good and hard . . .

Her nails sink into my shoulders; she’s panting now, greedy. “Yesss . . .”

“In the closet,” I promise, rolling my hips just right. I nip her lip. “Every room. Every surface.”

“Mmm,” she moans.

Suddenly, I want to watch her watching us.

“Field trip.” I hoist her again, carrying her toward the walk-in closet with built-in shelves. An island in the middle. Bench in front of the window.

A full-length mirror along the back wall . . .

I position us so we’re facing the mirror, her hands pressed against the glass, positioning myself behind her. She braces, gasping loudly as I spoon her from behind, kiss the back of her neck, and slide into her in one long, claiming stroke. The reflection gives us everything: her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed, the lazy swing of the chandelier above us, my hands spanning her waist so I can bury deeper still . . .

Our skin glistens.

“Look at you,” I rasp in her ear. “Look at how gorgeous you are.”

Those tits. I drag my thumb over her nipple and pinch, a shocked, breathy sound leaving her mouth as her gaze locks on the mirror.