Page 75 of Scouting the Single Dad

Hands and mouth included?

Several minutes later, Hayes gets us to the parking lot. It’s mostly empty, his truck sitting at the end of the row in what little shade the lot offers, a cooler of water bottles and snacks waiting in the bed so we can hydrate on our way back to his house.

He deposits me next to the passenger-side door. Unloads our backpacks before returning to my side to help me up. I put a foot on the running board, reach for his forearm—and my calf gives the pettiest little zing.

Yikes. Don’t love that.

His hands catch my elbows. “Easy.”

Too easy . . .

I look up at him. Sun behind his back, square jaw shadowed. Massive. Broody. Solid.

“Are you okay?” He wants to know—I can’t see the expression on his face, but I imagine it’s concern, and that’s enough to turn me on the teeniest, tiniest bit.

“I am okay, actually.” So okay.

My eyes glance at the ground.

It’s dirt, not gravel, and looks soft enough . . .

No one can see.

No one is around.

The idea keeps tugging at me, even as he hoists me into the cab. The engine turns over, a low growl that vibrates through the seat. A rush of cold air spills from the vents and lifts the damp hairs at my nape.

Hayes tips his head back, jaw shadowed, eyes shut like he’s stealing two seconds of peace. My pulse flutters. My teeth find my lower lip. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, but the timing feels reckless and perfect.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I unbuckle.

The center console isn’t wide enough to stop me; I slide over it on my knees, a hand braced on his thigh as my other fingers find the button on his pants.

His eyes fly open. Surprise.

Then something darker when he realizes what I’m doing.

I kiss the trail of skin exposed by his shirt riding up—the ridge of his abs, the hollow at his hip, the place that makes his breath hitch.

The truck hums as it idles.

Then.

One hand curves around the back of my neck, thumb stroking the sensitive spot under my ear, the other flattening on my hip like he needs to feel I’m real.

“Jesus.” He swallows. “You’re going to kill me.”

Yup, that is the plan . . .

I free him, and he groans, head thumping back against the headrest. His thighs go a fraction wider for me without me asking, like his body knows what to do even if his brain is shorting out. He smells like sweat and soap and autumn and something purely male, the kind of scent that makes my mouth water.

“Oh fuck . . .”

His leg bounces as I wrap my fingers around him—learning what makes his breath drag, what tightens his grip on my shoulder. His dick is big and hot and heavy in my palm, and when my thumb slides over the tip, his knuckles go white on the handle above the door.

“Holy shit,” he gasps. “You’re—you—oh fuck.”

I lean in, tongue tasting, lips parting. Already intoxicated by the curses leaving his throat.