Page 52 of Pucking the Single Dad
"That's disgusting," Brad said, but relief colored his voice—perfect timing to distract Finn from his grandparents' surgical exit.
"You're disgusting. We're leaving." Theo was already backing toward the door, Finn over his shoulder like a giggling sack of potatoes. "Standard rules—first one to the car picks the music!"
"That's cheating, you're already moving!" Finn shrieked with delight, squirming free and tearing after Theo like his shoes were rocket-powered.
"Don't break my kid," Brad called after them.
"Can't promise anything!" Theo's voice echoed from the hallway.
The door slammed. Silence descended like a dropped curtain.
We stared at each other across the sudden vacuum, the air between us compressed and dangerous. Brad was stillkneeling, his hands still on my knees, and I could see the exact moment his control snapped—pupils blown wide, jaw tightening, decision made.
"Fuck it," he growled, and surged up.
His mouth crashed into mine with three weeks of pent-up hunger. This wasn't the careful kisses we'd stolen, the performance pecks for audiences—this was admission and demand and desperate relief. I fisted his shirt, hauling him closer as he pressed me back into the couch, his weight settling over me like destiny.
"Serena," he groaned against my mouth, my name a prayer and a curse. His hands framed my face, then tangled in my hair, then gripped my waist like he was afraid I'd evaporate. "I can't pretend anymore."
"Brad," I pulled him down, erasing the space between us. "We shouldn’t -"
He kissed me like drowning in reverse, like coming up for air after years underwater. His hands mapped territories that had been off-limits, finding the spot where my pulse hammered against my throat, the curve where my waist met my hip. Every touch felt like claiming and confession combined.
Heat radiated off his broad shoulders as he tugged me toward the bedroom door. My pulse hammered in my ears, a frantic rhythm that matched the ache building low in my belly, the kind that made my thighs clench instinctively. Now, with the door in sight, there was no more pretending. I wanted him badly.
He didn't hesitate. He just shouldered the door open and yanked me inside, the wood slamming shut behind us with a decisive click that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. The room was a haze of shadows, lit only by the sliver ofstreetlight sneaking through half-drawn blinds, casting golden stripes across the rumpled king-sized bed.
Before I could even draw a full breath, Brad spun me against the door, his body pinning mine—solid, unyielding, the hard line of his erection pressing insistently against my hip through his jeans. His mouth crashed down on mine, hot and devouring, lips parting mine with a growl that vibrated straight to my core. His tongue swept in, claiming every inch, dueling with mine in a slick, urgent tangle that left me gasping into him.
My hands were everywhere—fisting the soft fabric of his black shirt, nails scraping lightly over the taut muscles of his back as I arched up against him. God, he felt good, all that restrained power coiled tight under my touch.
We stumbled away from the door in a clumsy ballet of limbs and half-swallowed moans, my heels catching on the edge of the throw rug until my calves hit the bedframe. I went down first, the mattress dipping under me with a soft whoosh, and he followed like a predator claiming his prize, his weight settling over me, one knee nudging my thighs apart.
The cool sheets were a shock against my heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire of his hands—rough palms sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the flimsy silk of my blouse. I bucked up instinctively, grinding against the ridge of his cock, and he hissed into my mouth, breaking the kiss just long enough to nip at my lower lip.
"Serena," he rasped, voice gravelly and wrecked, like he'd been holding back for hours. His forehead pressed to mine, breaths mingling in the scant space between us. "Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me."
I did, though. I could feel it—the way his heart thundered against my chest, syncing with mine in a chaotic duet. My fingers clawed frantically at the buttons of his shirt, fumbling to get it open in a desperate bid for more skin, more contact.
He obliged, rearing back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside in a careless arc that sent it fluttering to the floor. Moonlight caught the ridges of his abs, the faint trail of dark hair arrowing down from his navel to disappear into his waistband, and I couldn't help the greedy whimper that escaped me. He was built like a god—broad chest dusted with just enough hair to rasp against my palms, shoulders that flexed as he braced himself over me.
I traced the lines of him, nails dragging lightly over his pecs, circling one flat nipple until it pebbled under my touch. He shuddered, a low curse slipping from his lips, and dove back down, his mouth finding the curve of my neck.
His lips were everywhere—hot, open-mouthed kisses that seared a path from my jaw to my collarbone, teeth grazing just hard enough to sting, to make me gasp and tilt my head back, offering more. I could feel the pulse leaping in my throat, and he latched on there, sucking with deliberate pressure that would leave a mark tomorrow—a purple bloom of possession that I'd trace in the mirror and smile at.
His hands weren't idle. They roamed with purpose, cupping my breasts fully now, squeezing through the blouse until the fabric strained, my nipples tightening to painful points. I arched into his palms, friction sending jolts of pleasure straight to my clit, already swollen and throbbing in my damp panties.
"Brad," I breathed, my voice a husky plea as his thumb circled one peak, then pinched—sharp, exquisite pain blooming into heat.
He chuckled against my skin, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "These," he murmured, voice muffled as he nuzzled lower, "have been driving me crazy all night. Every time you moved, I could see them begging for attention."
His fingers worked the buttons of my blouse with surprising dexterity for a man who seemed seconds from ripping it off, popping them open one by one until the silk gaped wide. Cool air kissed my lace bra, but it was fleeting—his mouth followed, latching onto the swell of one breast, tongue laving over the fabric until it was soaked and translucent. I threaded my fingers through his short, tousled hair, holding him there as he sucked harder, the wet pull making me moan.
The blouse joined his shirt on the floor in a whisper of fabric, and then my bra clasp gave way under his impatient fingers—front-fastening, thank God, because I didn't want to wait. He peeled the lace away, exposing me fully, and his eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as he drank me in.
"Beautiful," he growled, and before I could respond, his mouth was on me—bare skin this time, hot and insistent. He sucked one nipple deep, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, while his hand kneaded the other, rolling and tugging until I was writhing beneath him, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. The seam of his jeans ground against my core, the rough denim dragging over my skirt, and I rocked up shamelessly, chasing the friction that was both too much and not nearly enough.
But he had other plans. His free hand skimmed down my side, bunching the hem of my skirt higher, fingers tracing the edge of my thigh-high stockings, teasing the bare skin above. I spread my legs wider on instinct, invitation clear, and he groaned, releasing my breast with a wet pop.
