Page 64 of Scouting the Single Dad

My fingers grip her ass, her back against the counter. Kneading her cheeks, wanting to lift her so I can look her in the eye. “Come here.”

I grip her hips and lift.

She’s light in my hands; goes willingly, landing on the counter with a soft gasp, knees automatically parting so I can step in close, like I’d done in the pool. My palms slide to the tops of her thighs, thumbs drawing idle paths that make her shiver.

Want and need course through my veins.

Want and need I haven’t let myself feel in years because lust like this clouds judgment and I cannot afford to be distracted . . .

Literal years.

“Hayes,” she gasps again. “We’re in the kitchen.”

The shock in her voice has me grinning.

“I noticed,” I say, smiling even as I chase another kiss. Desperate for more.

“We’ll never get those muffins baked if—”

My head shakes in amusement. Who cares about the goddamn muffins at a time like this? “Don’t give a shit.”

Fuck the muffins.

She tastes like sugar and cinnamon and the faintest trace of vanilla, my eyes almost rolling back when my dick nestles against her pussy through the fabric of our bottoms.

I imagine that it tastes as sweet as her lips.

I imagine burying myself inside her.

I imagine—

My hands bracket her hips, and I drag her to the edge of the counter, swallowing the sound she makes when I grind against her, slow and deliberate. Behind us the bowl scrapes against the tile backsplash, and I blindly reach to push it farther away because the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.

Layla laughs into my mouth.

“I’m taste testing.” I trail kisses down her throat and lower, nosing the loosened neckline of her sweatshirt aside. “You’re delicious.”

What I wouldn’t give to see her naked . . .

Then my palms slide underneath the thick material, greedier by the second, mesmerized by the satin of her skin. My head spins. Years of saying no to relationships and casual fucking, and now I want to drown myself in it.

“I’m so fucking hard.” I roll my hips to show her, stiff cock seeking the heat between her legs. “Perfect height.”

“God, you feel—” She stops talking. Scowls at me. “Why are you still wearing a shirt?”

“Why do I bother wearing one around you? You’re always telling me to take it off.”

Not that I’m complaining. I strip it off one-handed; it hits the floor with the softest whoosh. Her eyes track down my chest like she’s making a grocery list.

“Abs,” she purrs, dragging one wicked finger down the middle of my chest, down to my stomach. “Six-pack. Very on brand for a man who’s big and bad and mean.”

“Big and bad and mean,” I echo, grazing the corner of her mouth with my tongue, wanting to devour her whole. “But only to everyone who isn’t you.”

She feigns innocence. “Are you telling me I’m the only one who gets the sweet version?”

Yes. Apparently.

I drag my thumbs higher under her sweatshirt, finger the fabric of her bra. Thumb brushing her nipple; she arches into my hands like she’s been waiting for this all damn day.