Page 8 of Tempting the Single Dad
I silence him with a kiss, nipping gently at his lower lip, savoring his sharp intake of breath. "I know exactly what you mean," I whisper against his mouth. "It's crazy and impossible and feels completely right."
His smile is part relief, part hunger as he pulls me closer. "Thank god."
His kisses deepen, becoming a slow, thorough exploration that leaves me dizzy. One hand tangles in my hair, tugging slightly to expose my neck to his mouth. The gentle scrape of his beard against my sensitive skin sends goosebumps racing across my body as he traces a path of open-mouthed kisses down to my collarbone.
"You smell incredible," he murmurs, nuzzling the hollow of my throat. "Like cinnamon and something sweet."
His other hand slides beneath my sweater, warm and calloused against the small of my back. Each point of contact between us feels like a tiny flame, building a fire that pools low in my belly.I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing to feel his skin against mine.
When his fingers trace the underside of my breast through my bra, I gasp, my legs tightening around his hips. The hardness of him presses against me through our clothes, and the friction draws a moan from us both.
"Tell me what you want," he whispers, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. His pupils are blown wide, a thin ring of amber around endless black. "I need to hear you say it."
"You," I say simply, my fingers working at his shirt buttons.
The twinkle lights cast his face in gold and shadow as he helps me, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders. My breath catches at the sight of him, broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a tantalizing trail disappearing into his jeans. His shoulders are powerful, his arms defined not from a gym but from years of physical labor.
"What?" he asks, noticing my appreciative gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"You're hot," I say honestly, running my hands over the contours of his chest.
He laughs, a deep rumble that vibrates through me as he tugs at the hem of my sweater. "May I?"
I nod, lifting my arms as he pulls it over my head. The cool night air slipping through barn cracks raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, quickly chased away by the heat of his gaze.
His calloused fingertips drift over the swell of my breasts, down to my ribs, circling my navel, mapping me with deliberate patience that makes my breath come faster. When he finallycups my breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple through lace, the sensation sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.
I reach behind to unhook my bra, but he stops me, covering my hands with his. "Let me," he says, voice rough with desire. "I want to unwrap you slowly."
The bra falls away, and I resist the urge to cover myself. The way he looks at me, like I'm a priceless work of art he's been granted exclusive viewing rights to, banishes any insecurity about my body.
"Perfect," he breathes, palming the weight of my breasts, thumbs circling nipples that tighten under his touch. When he lowers his head to take one in his mouth, the wet heat of his tongue sends lightning through me. I arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, a desperate sound escaping my throat.
His hand drifts lower, unbuttoning my jeans with deft fingers. He looks up, seeking permission, and I nod frantically, lifting my hips to help him slide the denim down my thighs. My boots complicate matters, and we both laugh as he kneels to tug them off, followed by my jeans.
The sight of him on his knees before me, looking up with hunger in his eyes, makes me bold. I slide off the hay bale to join him on the floor, the rough wood warm beneath my knees.
"Can I?" I ask, hands moving to his belt, looking up through my lashes.
His breath catches audibly. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "God, yes."
I take my time with his belt, the leather smooth against my fingers. The metallic rasp of his zipper seems loud in the quiet barn, punctuated only by our breathing and the distant thrum of festival music.
When I finally free him from his boxers, I can't help but stare appreciatively. He's thick and hard, a bead of pre-cum already gathering at the tip.
The first taste of him is salt and musk, and the broken sound he makes when my lips close around him is deeply satisfying.
"Like this," he guides softly, one hand cradling my cheek, the other gently directing my rhythm. "Not too deep... yes, use your hand too..." His instruction is tender, appreciative, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "That's perfect," he murmurs, his voice deeper than before, roughened by restraint. "Just like that."
The praise sends heat flooding through me, pooling between my thighs. I should feel intimidated by the years between us, but instead, I'm dizzy with the thrill of it—of being taught, guided, molded by hands that have learned patience through experience. It's dangerous how much I crave his approval, how desperately I want to please this man.
I lose myself in the act, the velvet hardness against my tongue, the way his thighs tense when I find a particularly sensitive spot, the heavy sound of his breathing. His fingers thread through my hair, not pushing, just connecting, occasionally tightening when pleasure threatens to overwhelm him.
"Miranda," he groans, tugging gently to pull me away.
He helps me to my feet, claiming my mouth in a kiss that tastes of desperation and desire. When his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric to find me wet and ready, we both moan.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against my lips, circling my entrance teasingly before sliding a finger inside. "Is this all for me?"
