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He turned, and his answering smile made my stomach do backflips. His eyes traveled down my body slowly, taking in his oversized t-shirt hanging to my mid-thigh, my bare legs because I’d gotten rid of the pants, my messy hair. His throat bobbed.

Without a word, he crossed the kitchen and grabbed my waist, pulling me flush against him. His skin was warm under my palms. His heartbeat thumped against my chest.

“Hi,” he whispered back, voice rough with morning.

“Noa’s at school?”

He nodded, humming agreement as one hand found my hair, fingers threading through the curls to tuck them behind my ear. The gentle touch nearly liquified my bones. His other hand was on my lower back, pressing me closer, and I could feel every ridge of his abs through the thin cotton of his shirt. I could also feel how hard he was against me, his cock sending another wave of arousal pooling between my legs.

“We’re alone,” he said, and the way his voice dropped made my pulse spike.

“Dangerous,” I whispered.

Instead of responding, he walked me backward to the kitchen island and lifted me onto a bar stool with zero effort, hands spanning my waist like I weighed nothing. My brain short-circuited a little at the casual display of strength. He set a plate of pancakes in front of me, but his hands never left my body, one on my waist, one on my thigh, thumb drawing slow circles on my bare skin.

“Eat first,” he commanded softly.

“You’re distracting,” I mumbled around a bite of pancake. “Very distracting. Especially without a shirt.”

“My house, my rules.”

“Your rules include being half naked while I’m trying to eat breakfast?”

“Incentive program. Finish your plate, see what happens.”

Oh. I liked that. I nearly choked on my pancake. He chuckled and sat on the stool beside me, reaching for a bowl of cut fruit. “Here.”

He held up a strawberry, and two could definitely play this game. I leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as I wrapped my lips around the fruit and his fingers. When I used my tongue to clean the juice off his thumb, his groan was low, raw. His pupils dilated. His hand stayed near my mouth, frozen.

“Sam.” Warning or prayer. Hard to tell.

I bit into a piece of mango he offered next, let juice run down his wrist, then caught it with my tongue. Traced the tendons of his forearm with my lips. He shuddered.

He cleared his throat, watched me finish the last bite of pancake with dark eyes that had nothing to do with cooking. “Are you still hungry? I can bring you more fruit. Or more pancakes.”

“Yes,” I said, letting my hand fall to his thigh, inches from the very obvious, very impressive bulge straining against his sweatpants. “I’m hungry.” My fingers traced higher, brushed the outline of his cock. He twitched under my touch. “But not for food.”

“Sam…” My name came out tortured, desperate. He grabbed my wandering hand, lacing our fingers together. “I just… First, I need you to know I’m not a rebound. I’m not something you do while you figure your shit out. If this is happening, it’s happening.”

The words cut through my lust-fog, forcing me to actually think. This gorgeous, good man who’d shown me nothing but patience and kindness. Who was raising an incredible little girl on his own. Who looked at me now with such naked want mixed with vulnerability that it physically hurt.

Could I trust again? Could I let myself believe in another man after Garrett had shattered every faith I’d had in love?

The answer was: for another man? No. Hell no.

But for Tyson?

I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to try.

“It’s happening,” I said.

His groan started somewhere deep in his chest, a raw, guttural rumble that vibrated through me as he crashed his lips to mine, stepping between my spread knees. This kiss was different from last night’s desperate fumbling in the dark, clumsy and clothed, all frantic grinding. This was intent. Promise. Claim. His tongue swept against mine, hot and demanding, tasting of morning coffee and the faint minty taste of toothpaste, while his hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he yanked me to the edge of the stool.

My ass slid forward on the cool wood, and suddenly I could feel every inch of him pressed against me, his cock thick and rigid through his sweats, throbbing against the heat of my core, the fabric barrier doing nothing to hide how desperately hard he was for me.

My hands found his cock through the thin cotton, wrapping around the length of him over the fabric, feeling the veined shaft pulse under my palm, the head already leaking a damp spot that smeared against my fingers. He hissed against my teeth, the sharp intake of breath sending a thrill straight to my clit, making my pussy clench with fresh need.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice breathy and wrecked, my thighs parting wider in invitation, the air cool against my dampening panties.