Page 89 of Scouting the Single Dad

“God, I love your ass,” he murmurs, palms full of me as he turns.

His mouth never leaves mine. We bump a doorframe, both of us grinning into the kiss like thieves, and then his knees hit the mattress.

He plops me down.

Steps back, pulling his T-shirt off and tossing it.

Crawls onto the mattress toward me, hands going to the waistband of my sleep shorts. Tugs them down over my hips.

I’m not wearing panties.

“Jesus, Layla.”

He slides my shorts the rest of the way off, slow, like he’s unwrapping something he intends to worship, gaze raking up my legs as he crawls forward on his knees. Licks my pussy.

He settles at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders wedged between my thighs, hands sliding under my ass, lifting me to his mouth, tongue teasing lazy circles as I gasp his name.

“Hayes . . .”

“Layla,” he murmurs into me, the word a vibration I feel everywhere. “Sweet. So fucking perfect.”

He kisses me there—and it’s deliciously obscene—parting me with his thumbs and dragging his tongue in a deeper stroke, savoring. Sucking.

My knees try to climb his shoulders. He pins me open, possessive and worshipful, and the heat in my belly tightens.

“More?” he asks, breath hot against slick skin.

“Yes,” I manage. “Please.”

I’m begging now.

He sucks some more, gently at first, then greedy, and I swear I can feel him smiling.

Unable to stop myself, I rock against his mouth, fucking his face; he holds me there, feeding me sensations until I’m dizzy with want, until the room narrows to tongue and heat and the rough sound he makes every time I shiver.

I tug his hair—helpless, wanton—and he groans, deeper, and seals his mouth over my clit.

Sparks.

Fireworks.

Chapter 21

Hayes

I can’t get enough of the sounds she makes.

The gasps that happen when I flatten my tongue on her pussy. The strangled breath when I suck. The whimper that says, Don’t stop, oh God, don’t stop . . . and the way her hands reach for my shoulders and tug.

She’s trying to pull me closer even though I’m already as close as a man can get.

Layla tugs at me—at my hair—and I groan helplessly, sealing my mouth over her clit again, sucking harder when her thighs tremble around my head. I keep one hand under her, palm to the small of her back, lifting her to my mouth so I can take what she gives me and give it back tenfold. My other hand slides up her belly, pressing.

I lap and tease, change the pressure, learn her. Every twitch, every curse, every shaky little whine all but begging me to fuck her . . .

She rocks against my mouth, and I hold her there, greedy, because I want to feel her come apart on my tongue. I want to feel the exact second her body decides this is it.

Her fingers bite into my scalp, and the sound that rips from me is not polite, not patient.