Page 115 of Summer with the Single Dad

Five more minutes.

Just five.

That was all she needed to rally for the day.

She closed her eyes and drifted back into dreamland. Back to the dream that the alarm so aggressively and obnoxiously interrupted.

The dream where she and Bennett shared the deep soaker tub on the second-floor sundeck of her tiny house. He massaged her feet as she sipped wine and stared up at the endless stars above.

They were just getting to the good part of the bath, with her straddling him and water sloshing all about, when a harsh pounding echoed.

“What’s that?” she asked him.

But he vanished like a puff of smoke. Then the tub disappeared, as did the deck, and the bubbles, the wine, and the stars until she was back in her bed, wide awake, confused and really angry.

Climbing out of bed in nothing but a tank top—but not realizing she was naked on the bottom until she reached the door—she scrambled back to the bedroom and tugged on her pajama shorts.

“Justine?” came Bennett’s voice from outside. “You awake?”

Oh no!

Tabarnak!

She flung open the door to find him standing there looking fresh from a good night’s sleep, and sexy as all get out in his running gear. His eyes widened and his mouth parted when he scoped out the fact that she absolutely was not ready to go.

“Did your alarm not go off?” he asked.

“No. It did,” she said sheepishly. “I … I just needed five more minutes and five minutes turned into forty-five.”

“Oh.”

She shook her head. “You go. I’m fine taking a day off. I had a terrible sleep anyway.”

Frowning, he ducked his head and stepped inside the trailer, crowding her so she was forced to back up into the kitchen. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m happy to skip today as well. It’s all good.” The glint in his eyes was primal, and he stalked toward her again, closing her in against the stove. “Why’d you have a terrible sleep? Was it because of what we spoke about?” Real concern shimmered back at her, along with something else. Something feral. Something wild.

Her pulse picked up tempo and her mouth—and pussy—flooded.

She swallowed. “Uh … no.”

God, she was a terrible liar.

He tipped his head to the side, waiting for her to respond.

She cleared her throat. “I, um … I was, um … I was sexually frustrated when you left last night, and so I, uh … I took matters into my own hands.”

The slow smile that curled his mouth reminded her of both the Grinch when he got an idea. A wonderful, awful idea. And the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Either way, not a clean or respectable thought paraded through the man’s head as his hands enclosed on her hips, his thumbs drawing erotic circles. “Tell me about it,” he said, his voice pure sex and rasp.

Her body was on fire. And wherever he touched her, flames danced. Her clit throbbed between her legs and she had to curl her toes on the laminate floor to stop herself from bucking her hips forward to grind against him.

What was coming over her?

She’d never been this salacious or sexually driven.

He’d opened up a beast, and now that beast had a taste and refused to sit quietly in the corner and wait her turn. She cut in line, raised her voice, and demanded her orgasms.

And Justine had no real desire to quiet her down.

Biting her lip, she glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “I … I just used my fingers.”

---