Page 79 of Scouting the Single Dad

From my bathroom I snag an Icy Hot pack, a clean towel, and the bottle of lotion I use after lifts, then tip my head down the hall toward the guest bedroom where she’s been staying.

“C’mon. I’m gonna rub your leg.”

She gives me a wry little smile and limps along after me, fingers brushing the doorframe as she passes.

I take in the room. Rarely walk inside it, appreciate the simplicity of it. White duvet, white pillows, silver lamp. Shutter blinds on the windows cracked to let the light in.

“Lie down? Let me see what we’re working with.”

Layla settles onto the bed, spreading out at the edge of it, and I sidle up, then untie her shoes. Remove her socks. She wiggles her cute little toes.

I work the long line of her calf, find the ropey spot that’s been overcompensating, and ease it with steady circles until it lets go under my hands. She exhales softly, and my self-control lists, then rights itself.

My cock moves.

My hands skim her warm skin—careful, slow passes to get the blood moving in her leg. She inhales.

“How’s the pressure?”

“Perfect.” A beat. “Your hands feel amazing.”

“You think so?”

She nods, head on the pillow. “So good.”

I warm a ribbon of lotion between my palms until it’s slick and hot, then sweep my hands down and back up her calf. Kneading. Heat chases the path I make. The knot at the side finally melts, and I reward the muscle with a long, lazy stroke that makes Layla’s toes curl.

My palms glide higher, mapping the length of her thigh with a slow pressure that coaxes her deeper into the pillow as I rub the hem of her shorts, below her ass cheek.

“Here?” I work the outside quad, steady and sure.

“Mmm. There.” Her voice is fuzzy. Relaxed. “Keep—yeah. Just like that.”

Just like that . . .

“Time to roll onto your back. Let me work your thighs.” I think for a few seconds before adding, “Do we think you should remove these shorts?”

Layla rolls to her back, nodding her agreement. “Oh, for sure.”

Hooking my fingers in the waistband of her black biker shorts, I ease them over her hips, then down, careful of her calf. She lifts for me so I can slide them down her legs and toss them to the white overstuffed chair in the corner.

My pupils dilate at the sight of her beige lace underwear with a scallop trim that conceals nothing.

I already know I want to bury my fucking face there.

My hands roam, learning her body—lazy strokes to map what makes her sigh, firmer ones that have her biting her lip, little circles that pull a soft curse from her throat. Every reaction is a breadcrumb; I follow all of them.

Layla shivers.

I swallow.

My palms—still slick from lotion—press up her thigh. Down again. Up . . . fingers skimming the edge of her panties, unable to stay away. I mean—I can see her fucking pussy, why wouldn’t I want to play with it?

Jesus.

I trace the line where fabric turns to skin, slow enough to make her hips twitch, cruel enough to keep from giving her what she wants. My thumb slips under, not quite moving the panties aside—just enough to make us both shiver.

Her legs spread the smallest fraction.