Page 90 of Scouting the Single Dad

It’s mine.

She is mine.

Her thighs try to close; my shoulders hold them open. She bows off the mattress, and I pin her there, worshipful and a little ruthless, because she asked for more and I have more to give.

“That’s it,” I breathe, barely words. “Come in my mouth.”

She shakes her head as if she doesn’t want to—she probably wants to come on my dick, but that’s not the goal here. Not for me, anyway.

Layla does her best to be quiet, moaning, head tossing from side to side as my mouth does what it does. Her legs quake around my head, the sound she makes landing somewhere in my chest and detonating.

Hearing her is like a five-star review.

I ride it with her—gentle licks, a kiss on her pussy that borders on obscene, the hand on her belly caressing until the tremors ease and she falls back to earth, boneless and beautiful.

I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh, a soft kiss to say I’m thankful—and a second to say, I’m not done with you yet. When I crawl up her body, she’s flushed and dazed, eyes blown wide, hair a halo on my pillow.

“Hey,” I rasp, bracing over her on my forearms so I don’t crush her. “You okay?”

A breathless laugh ghosts across my cheek. “Define ‘okay.’”

I grin and tease, “Could you drive my truck?”

Layla laughs. “Absolutely not. No better than you could after that BJ.”

Real talk.

“But enough about me . . . it’s your turn,” she whispers, the promise causing my cock to go from rock hard to—solid rock.

I catch her hand and bring her knuckles to my mouth. “You don’t have to—” Suck my dick.

Again.

“I want to.” She shifts under me, a deliberate roll of hips that smashes my good intentions to dust. “I really, really want to.”

A woman who loves blow jobs? Pinch me, I’m fucking dreaming . . .

My composure frays as one minute I’m wearing pants and the next second I’m not, grinding into the cradle of her thighs. “I’m already so hard—I want to be inside you when I lose it.”

“Well . . .” Her eyes flare. “What are you waiting for?”

“Condoms,” I laugh hoarsely. “I have no condoms.” Haven’t needed them.

I can feel the look she gives me, even though the room is mostly dark, her hand caressing my hip. “Hayes?”

“Hmm?”

She goes quiet for a beat, like she’s weighing something important, then: “I’m on the pill.” A soft brush of lips at my jaw. “Was at the gyno two months ago, and she tested me. All clear.” Her thigh slides up my hip, hooking me closer. “You?”

“Same,” I say, feeling a blush on my cheeks. “I mean—at the doctor. Not the . . .” Gyno. “It’s been . . . yeah. I’m good.”

“How do you feel about . . .” She swallows. “Doing it with no condom?”

How do I feel about it?

Uh.

Good? Great?