Page 48 of Rescued by the Single Dad

Clint held her tighter to him, tucking his chin on the top of her head, because if she looked at him like the way she was looking at him for much longer, he was going to kiss her. Something in her eyes—the relief maybe—said she sought more than just comfort. “The tears don’t have to make sense. That’s what I tell Talia all the time. Sometimes tears just don’t make sense, but they need to happen in order for the world to make sense again.”

She pried her head out from under his chin, and he took a deep breath, stealing himself and his resolve.

She was vulnerable.

She was confused.

She was a castaway the world thought was dead.

And more than anything, she was temporary. All the thoughts cannoning around in his head were unwise. They were fueled by unbridled lust, by loneliness, and his own warped hero-complex. He needed to keep a firm head on his shoulders and not let his dick do the decision making.

But when her sad eyes met his, and she cupped his cheek, everything he told himself to do, all the mental coaching on how to behave, dissolved into the ether like a puff of smoke. “You’re a good man, Clint McEvoy,” she whispered. “And an incredible father.”

Then, before he could respond, or try to maneuver some space between them, she lifted up and pressed her lips to his.

They were salty from her tears, but soft and oh so warm.

The kiss was gentle. Delicate almost. He could sense her hesitation and when she pulled away and opened her eyes, there was worry there. Like she’d overstepped and read things wrong.

She hadn’t.

Not in the slightest.

He studied her green eyes. They were bright and the shade of hanging moss. Her slightly swollen lips trembled, and her gaze shifted back and forth across his face, searching for an answer. For reassurance.

He knew he shouldn’t.

But every cell in his body wanted to.

Every cell in his body needed to.

Cupping her face, he tipped his head down and took her mouth again.

Just like the last kiss, this one was slow and sweet. But when she released his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, it grew hotter, harder and more deliberate.

His heart drummed a heavy beat against his ribcage, and his dick pressed impatiently against his jeans as she deepened the kiss, pushing his lips further apart with her tongue and taking control.

He welcomed her into his lap as she stepped out of the tub of warm salt water and straddled him, her knees on either side of his thighs. She rocked against him, feeling his erection along her inner thigh and moaning.

That sexy, feminine moan dissolved the last of his resolve, and he grabbed the back of her head with a growl and bucked up against her.

She pulled away and for the briefest of seconds; he thought she was having second thoughts, but when her eyelids dropped to half-mast and her gaze raked him from his cock to his hairline, her chest heaving, he read her mind perfectly.

They crashed back together, a messy force of hands peeling away clothing and lips drifting across bare skin. She tore off his tank top and reared back, her eyes zoning in on his tattoo. The eagle, globe and anchor with the small script words Semper Fi underneath.

“You’re a marine?” she breathed, touching his tattoo with her soft fingertips, then hesitantly touching his dog tags.

He nodded stiffly, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “I did two tours in Iraq.”

She moved her fingers back to his tattoo and lifted her gaze, leaning forward, pressing her lips to his. He tried to move things along faster, but she shook her head and pressed her palm to his tattoo, murmuring, “Uh-uh.”

He swallowed hard and sat back against the couch, his hands on her bare hips. She was topless, and he had a hard time keeping his eyes off her tits. The nipples were tight and hard. A muted red, and practically screaming for his mouth.

But she kept her hand on his tattoo. Kept him sitting there, under her spell. Under her control.

Languidly, without a care for time or his angry erection prodding her in the thigh, she kissed across the planes of his face. The corners of his mouth, along his jaw, down his neck, along his collarbone, over the span of his chest. She made a point of pressing a longer kiss to his tattoo, almost as if saying a silent thank you.

Emotion clawed at the back of his throat as he watched her. As she peppered warm kisses over his bicep, picked up his arm and continued to kiss down his forearm until his hand. She pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, then guided his hand to her breast.

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