Page 73 of Scouting the Single Dad

She turns her face and looks me directly in the eyes. “I do.”

Wind skims the ridge. I drag a palm over my thigh, pressing it down to stop it from shaking.

“Then I’ll keep my language plain,” I manage. “I want to fuck you.”

A tiny nod. “Good.”

I pull her in, cupping her face with my big palms, and kiss her—it’s salty from our sweat and sweet from the chocolate bar. Hot from the sun.

Heat rushes up my spine; everything narrows to the soft catch of her bottom lip and the way her fingers fist in my shirt like she’s bracing for weather.

“Hayes?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m going to make you beg for it.”

Chapter 16

Layla

I end up with a cramp.

Halfway down the mountain, midway through bragging that hiking is easy—and stomping around in front of him—my calf seizes.

Karma has humbled me.

“OW.” I freeze, heel kicked forward, arms out like I’m stopping traffic. “Help.”

Hayes reaches me so fast you’d think I’d been sniped. “Where?”

“My entire leg,” I gasp. “From ankle to earlobe.”

His handsome face frowns. “That’s not an anatomical pathway.”

“It is now.”

He bites back a smile and moves in, all competent hands and calm voice as he bends to run his palm over my calf, massaging it gently until I yelp like a baby.

“Breathe. Toe up. Don’t fight it.” He braces me against his chest, one arm around my waist, the other guiding my foot like we’re slow dancing with gravity.

Despite my injury, I want to burrow myself inside of him; run my hands up his stomach, under his compression shirt. Even with a knot in my leg, Hayes is super delicious and I want to touch him.

“It’s—oh shit, it’s worse,” I announce dramatically. “I see a bright light. It’s shaped like a pool float. Tell my mother I love her.”

“Focus.” He straightens my leg, presses his thumb deep into the knotted muscle. I yelp again, then sag, because it’s awful and perfect and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

My mind goes to sex. His body over mine, moving in and out . . .

“Am I dying?”

“You’re dehydrated and stubborn,” he says, amused, reaching for the water bottle and holding it to my lips. “Sip.”

I sip.

He glances at the trail—narrow, with a lot of loose gravel. “You good to walk?”

“Absolutely.” I put weight on my calf, and it protests meanly. “Absolutely not.” Suddenly I am a Victorian heroine. Cue the fainting couch. “Fetch my smelling salts, I feel faint.”