Page 132 of Scouting the Single Dad

I laugh, scandalized, but he has a low-key bossy mountain-man thing going, and suddenly my legs are already swinging into his lap and his hands are on me.

Grady tugs off both my socks like he’s unwrapping a present, slow and careful, eyes on me the whole time. Warm palms wrap my frozen right foot; his thumbs press into my arch and—oh. Ohh . . .

“Good?” he asks, voice low.

“So so good.”

Better than good. A moan escapes my throat.

His thumbs slide up my instep, and I melt, spine going soft, dignity slipping right off the couch with my socks.

“Tell me if you want more or less,” he murmurs, head bowed like he’s concentrating.

“More,” I breathe. “Definitely more.”

He kisses the inside of my ankle—quick, reverent—then trades feet, working slow circles that spread heat up my calves. My bones go boneless.

When he squeezes behind my knee, a tiny gasp flies out of me.

Grady’s eyes flick up. “Sensitive?”

“Apparently.”

His thumbs trace the inside seam of my legs, slow enough to make a shiver roll up my back. He presses another kiss above my knee. Then a little higher.

“I thought this was a medical procedure,” I manage.

“It is.” His smile curves against my skin. “Restoring circulation.”

He guides my heels onto his shoulders and leans in, mouth traveling a lazy path that has nothing to do with podiatry and everything to do with the way my hips tilt toward him.

Grady is all smoke and heat as his hand slides under my sweater, his palm wide and warm over my stomach. I arch into it—into him—and he groans, a sound that vibrates right through me as nervous energy floods my belly.

Why do I feel a tad guilty?

Like I’m cheating?

Hayes and I barely speak.

He’s not here.

“Come here,” Grady says, voice reeling me back into the moment.

Straddling him is a revelation: the solid breadth of him, the way his hands bracket my hips and guide me down to where he’s hot through denim.

Hard.

I gasp; his fingers tighten as I roll my hips, grinding into his erection, body on autopilot.

He kisses me like he’s got nowhere else to be, slow and devastating, then trails his mouth along my jaw, my throat, the edge of my collar. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes.” Obviously . . .

He peels my sweater off like he did my socks, eyes skimming over bare skin before he bends to taste the new warmth he’s uncovered. Kissing my breasts above the lace of my white bra.

My hands fist in his hair. The storm knocks against the windows, and I swear the sound lives in my chest now.

“Doctor,” I moan. “I think I need follow-up care.”