Page 76 of Scouting the Single Dad

He’s watching me now, heavy lidded, chest lifting, like he can’t decide between looking and closing his eyes to survive it.

I suck.

Take him deeper, hand working in rhythm, stroking his balls and his shaft, sucking and stroking at the same time.

“Oh my fucking God,” he rasps, like warning me about a cliff he’s about to go over. He tries to sit up, like he needs to see, to help, to surrender. “You feel—fuck—oh f-f-fuck—so good.”

Yeah, you said that already . . .

I hum around him, and he shudders.

His palm slides into my hair, not pushing, just holding, his control written in the way his fingers flex and release. I set a pace that turns a low growl in his chest into a broken sound, a pace that says I might be out of practice but giving blow jobs is like riding a bike and I haven’t forgotten how.

“Layla, b-babe—Christ,” His head tips forward, voice shredded. “If you keep—” He breaks off with a strangled sound when I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper. “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

I want to make him moan and come in my mouth so bad . . .

I’m desperate for it.

“L-Layla—” he stutters, body locked tight, gripping his door handle. “I’m gonna—”

I press my thumb beneath his balls. Massage.

I suck and suck, and he comes apart in my throat, a groan tearing out of his chest that has the truck vibrating harder than the engine, his hand clamping in my hair . . .

I swallow.

Then he’s gone—eyes squeezed shut, head thunked back, one palm braced uselessly on the steering wheel as if he’s trying to keep himself from floating off the planet.

“My legs feel like JELL-O,” he admits, scandalized by his own body. “I can’t feel them at all.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Layla.” He shakes his head. “That felt so fucking good.”

Yeah, I could tell. “Breaking news, the state of Arizona has had several noise complaints coming from this park,” I say primly, reaching over to help him straighten the hem of his shirt.

“Don’t make me laugh.” He laughs, then winces. “What if I never recover? What if you broke me? What if I can’t ever do math again?”

I roll my eyes, smiling. Lick my lips. “You don’t need math.”

He pulls me forward, kissing me square on the mouth, hands gripping the back of my head, tugging on my hair. I wonder if he can taste the salty parts of him on my tongue as I open my mouth to him.

I’m turned on, too, but don’t count on him to return the favor.

It would be way too awkward—like, where would he kneel?

We part, and he squares his shoulders, smacking his hands on the steering wheel. Focused. Determined.

“Right. Right. Driving.” He clears his throat. “I can do this.”

I buckle my seat belt as he fumbles for the ignition that’s already on. He pats around for a key that does not exist—all he has to do is press Start—then remembers how modern vehicles work.

“Okay.” He’s muttering to himself, running through the steps like a flight checklist. “Feet. Pedals. Hands. Wheel.”

“Excellent.” I laugh. “I feel so safe right now.”

Hayes rubs his face with both palms, breathing like he finished a triathlon three seconds ago. He reaches for the gearshift, then rests his hand on his lap.