Page 152 of Scouting the Single Dad

Her gaze stays locked on the glass like it’s a live feed of her undoing, and I set a rhythm—deep and deliberate—one hand climbing so it’s at her throat, thumb lazy at her pulse.

“Harder,” she begs.

“Ask nicely.” I grind where she needs it just to feel her shiver.

“Please.”

I give it to her.

The mirror shows us everything: the sharp lift of her breasts when I drive in, the way they bounce when I snap my hips, the insatiable way she rocks against my cock for more.

I cup her tits and tease a thumb over a tight peak, and her knees wobble.

“That’s it,” I whisper, holding her up. “Good girl—keep your eyes on us.”

She does, biting her lip, wrecked and triumphant. “God, Hayes . . .”

I’m gonna jizz. I can feel my balls tightening as the sound of our bodies slapping together fills the closet, our eyes meeting in the reflection.

Layla’s lips part in an almost pained expression when she comes; I bury my face at her neck, and we fall apart together.

Chapter 40

Layla

Sunday night . . .

It’s warm.

The air is warm, thick with the smell of grilled hot dogs and spilled soda. The bleachers vibrate under my feet, the crowd alive with chatter and bursts of cheers. I fan myself with the crumpled program, wishing I hadn’t worn a damn sweatshirt.

Then again, what the hell do I know about football games?

Benny doesn’t notice my fidgeting.

She’s too busy leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes laser focused on the field because she was practically born in these stands. She’s got her hair up in a ponytail, a soda at her feet, and a running commentary ready for my benefit.

“Okay,” she starts, turning to me with that know-it-all sparkle only a nine-year-old can pull off. “See those guys in the huddle? That’s the offensive line. They’re basically Dad’s bodyguards. If they don’t do their job, he’s toast.”

I squint toward the field, where a bunch of helmets bob in a tight circle. “They all look the same to me.”

“That’s because you don’t know what you’re looking for.” She grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

I laugh under my breath, because she’s serious. Dead serious. This is her world, not mine, and I can feel her excitement buzzing like static between us.

“Now,” she says, pointing. “See Dad? Number twenty-two? He plays running back. That means when the quarterback hands him the ball, he gets to run it as far as he can before someone tackles him.”

Oh crap. That sounds serious. I had no idea.

Hayes, helmet in hand, waits for the snap. He looks huge out there, impossibly strong and sooo so sexy. Rawr.

“Tackling sounds dangerous.”

“Yeah, it is,” she says proudly. “But he’s really good at it.”

Her faith is so absolute it almost knocks the breath out of me. I glance down at her—gangly legs stretched out, mismatched bracelets stacked on her wrist—and wonder if she has any idea how much she sounds like him. It’s adorable.

The whistle blows.