Page 80 of Scouting the Single Dad

I knead her inner thigh with the palm of my hand, pushing. Pressing. Oiling up her flesh, wanting to do so much more than that.

“Hayes.” Her breath catches. “Please.”

“Please what?” I murmur, mouth grazing the inside of her knee. “Use your words.”

“Touch me.”

Fuck yes . . .

My finger skims the lace of her panties, and I trace a single, slow line up the center of her pussy, featherlight. Teasing. She gasps—of course she fucking does—so I do it again, circling where she’s aching the most.

I go down on my knees next to the bed, pulling her to the edge, resting her legs on my shoulders, face and mouth and tongue needing to devour her.

“Here?” I ask, voice low, teasing the edge of the lace with the pad of my thumb. Mouth watering . . .

Her head goes back into the pillow, her hands grip the coverlet. When I hook the lace aside, her legs open another inch.

“Good girl,” I murmur, leaning in to kiss the inside of her thigh. “Let me keep that mouth on your pretty pussy until you’re shaking.”

Until you’re coming in my mouth . . .

“I want to take care of you,” I tell her.

“You are.” She pants. “And I really, really like it.”

I drag my mouth higher, slow enough to make her whine, then breathe hot against the damp lace. One kiss to the center—soft, closed mouth, a promise—then I nose the fabric aside and finally taste her.

Holy. Fuck.

She’s sweet and slick and already fluttering for me. My tongue flattens and slides from bottom to top, a long, greedy stroke that has her hips jerking against my face. I pin her gently with my forearms under her thighs, mouth sealing over her while my tongue teases her clit in lazy, circling passes.

I take my time.

My hand slips under the lace, and I ease two fingers inside, knuckles pressed to the heat of her while my mouth stays glued to the spot that makes her lose her mind.

“Oh—God—don’t s-stop,” she stutters, voice breaking.

My moan is guttural. My dick? Rock fucking hard.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Mess up my mouth.” Let me fuck you with my tongue.

Her back bows, a desperate sound tearing out of her throat, and I hold her there—steady, relentless—until she shatters, pulsing around my fingers, coming hard on my tongue while I groan and drink every last second of it like I’ve been starving.

Chapter 18

Layla

I don’t mean to beg, but apparently my body does it for me.

His shoulders wedge under my knees, and the bedspread is rough beneath my palms, and I can’t decide if I should look down and watch his mouth or throw my head back and let every sound in my chest fall out . . .

Oh God, It Feels so Freaking Good.

So good.

My thighs tense against his head, and he hums, the vibration lighting up every nerve ending I own. The sound shoots straight through me.

One long.