Page 88 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Listen—we just met. You barely know me, I barely know you. I’m not asking for a ring, or a toothbrush in your drawer, and I’m not going to leave tampons under your sink. You can relax.”

My hands move from his face to his shoulders, fingers pressing into the tense muscles flexing there.

“I am relaxed,” he lies, eyes on mine. “Tomorrow we tell her the truth in a kind way. That you’re not going to be her new mom anytime soon. Grown-ups take their time, and we haven’t even known each other a week.” He pauses. “You’ll help me say it, right?”

“Obviously.” I tip my head. “The person who uses the word ‘friend’ the most amount of times wins.”

He laughs. “I’m not doing that.”

“Oh come on—I love a little healthy competition.”

“I’m not calling you my friend. Tried that, didn’t work. Felt shitty.”

“Is that so . . . ?” My fingers begin playing with the sleeve of his T-shirt in the dark, relishing the warmth of his skin.

“It’s so.” His voice drops, honest in a way that makes my chest feel too full. “Calling you my friend felt like lying to both of us. And to her.”

I go very still. “What would you call me, then?”

“Someone I want to do dirty, sexy things to. Someone I want to have sex with for hours on end. Someone I want to introduce to my friends.”

My face heats up, and I’m thankful for the dim lighting. “Friends don’t do most of those things.”

“Exactly.” I feel his gaze drop to my mouth.

“If you’re trying to take things slow, it’s not working.” My thumb strokes the warm flesh above his neckline. “And you’re doing nothing for my self-control.”

“I’m not trying to.” His knuckles graze my hip—barely there, enough to set every nerve on alert. “To be clear.”

Noted. “What else do you want?”

Hayes laughs. “To finish what we started. To get naked.”

“Oh—is that all?”

He answers with a kiss that is relief and hunger, and a growl he can’t quite swallow. I open for him without thinking twice, without hesitating. I taste him—toothpaste and lust and want and something that makes my knees go weak—and I chase it, fisting his tee, dragging him closer until his chest is a wall against me.

Our tongues clash.

Greedy.

Sloppy.

Delicious.

He tastes like trouble, and I want every drop.

My back finds the wall, and he crowds in, thigh sliding between my legs, the pressure exactly where I’m aching. I gasp into him; he kisses me harder like he’s staking a claim, fingers skimming my waist and slipping under my tank top, a slow, possessive drag that leaves sparks in their wake.

“Mmm, boobs,” he breathes, mouth tracing my cheek, my jaw, back to my mouth like he can’t stand the distance. “More.”

He lifts my chin and takes me again—hungry, ruinous, perfect—until thinking is a luxury I can’t afford and the only thing that matters is the hot slide of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth, the way he groans when I tug his hair and pull him closer.

Messy.

Addictive.

His hands slide from my boobs to my rib cage, down to my ass, and he pulls, lifting me up. I yelp against his mouth when my feet leave the floor, arms flying around his neck. He laughs—low and wicked—and I feel it everywhere as he gathers me close, my legs wrapping around his hips on instinct.