Page 65 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Sweet,” I repeat. Like dessert.

Her smile goes wicked. “You want seconds?”

“I want firsts. And thirds.” I roll my hips again, and her breath hitches. Mine does too . . .

I angle my hips and drive against Layla as if I were burying myself inside her, deeper, the seam of her leggings catching the tip of my dick exactly where she needs it. Her head tips back, and I kiss her throat again as my hands hold her steady, gripping her waist.

The countertop bites my thighs; I don’t care.

It’s obscene how fucking fantastic this feels without an inch of penetration or bare skin where we want it most.

I brace a forearm beside her and use the other hand to lock us in place and dry fuck harder, and Layla clutches at my shoulders.

I feel my body getting hot all over.

Face getting warm.

Sweat beads at my temples as I fight for control.

I do not want to come in my goddamn pajama bottoms . . . but I’m right there—too close—every nerve lit, breath ragged and ugly in my throat.

This isn’t me. I don’t do needy. I don’t do desperate.

I am Hayes fucking Fielder, for God’s sake.

But she’s everywhere: sugar on her skin, vanilla on her lips, something feral in the way she rubs against me, chasing her own release with a choked whimper that nearly undoes me.

“Oh shit . . .”

Another drag, another grind—filthy—and stars spray across the edges of my sight. Heat coils tight, mean and certain. I know what that tingling in my sac means, so I bite down on a curse and hunt for oxygen that won’t come as Layla tugs me closer still, fingers digging into my lower back like she wants to fuse us together.

My knee hits the cupboard. I don’t care.

I’m gone.

I’m going.

Panic flares, colliding with a savage, helpless pleasure that makes my knees threaten to drop out from under me. Our mouths are locked together, her tongue down my throat, muffling the sound tearing up my chest, as I press into that perfect angle with three hard rolls of my hips—

“Oh shit . . .” I gasp, filling my lungs with air. My thighs are trembling.

My pajama bottoms are now a sticky crime scene.

I pull back an inch, dazed, trying to school my face and failing, because she’s flushed and gorgeous and wrecked in the best way, sweater rucked high, lips kiss bruised, looking at me in the most satisfied way.

“What the hell was that?” I whisper.

“Extra credit?” she breathes, looking none too pleased.

I huff a laugh that makes me sound like I just hit puberty. “I—Jesus, Layla. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey.” Her palm slides to my neck. “That was very, very okay.”

“Okay?” I glance down at the ruin of my dignity, my dick deflating at a rapid pace, come dripping down the inside of my leg. “I just jizzed in my fucking pants.”

She laughs.

I groan, forehead dropping to her shoulder as I try to catch my breath. The aftershocks keep nipping at me; I’m useless. “I need five minutes. New legs.”