Page 6 of Second Chance Daddy
“I can’t,” I whisper. “I should, but I can’t.”
“Good,” he growls, and then his mouth is on mine again.
This kiss is different—hungrier, more desperate. Like he’s been thinking about this for as long as I have. His hands roam everywhere, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to spontaneously combust right here in this parking lot.
This is so not me. I don’t do this. I don’t make out with guys on car hoods like some teenager. I’m twenty-six years old, for crying out loud.
But God, it feels so good to just... let go.
His mouth moves to my ear, and when he speaks, his voice is rough and low and absolutely devastating. “I’ve been thinking about this since the moment I saw you in that bar.”
Oh, hell. If he keeps talking like that, I’m going to do something really stupid.“Dante,” I breathe, my hands fisting in his shirt.
“Yeah?”
“This is crazy.”
“The best things usually are.”
And that’s when I completely lose my mind.
Because instead of pushing him away like a sane person would, I’m pulling him closer, wrapping my legs around his waist and kissing him like my life depends on it.
He groans into my mouth, and I can feel how much he wants this. How much he wants me.
God, when was the last time someone wanted me like this?
Never. The answer is never.
His hands slide under my shirt, and when his thumbs brush against my ribs, I arch into him with a gasp.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my neck. “I love that.”
I love everything about this. Which is probably a problem.
But right now, I don’t care about problems. Right now, I just want to feel something other than fear and uncertainty and the crushing weight of my failed marriage.
Right now, I want to feel alive.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, tugging it up, and I raise my arms without thinking. The cool night air hits my skin, but I’m too far gone to care.
“Jesus, Cassie,” he breathes, his eyes dark with want as they roam over my body. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Beautiful. When was the last time someone called me beautiful and meant it?
His hands are everywhere—sliding over my stomach, my ribs, cupping my breasts through my bra until I’m gasping and arching back against the hood of my car.
This feels like more than just a hookup. This feels like something else entirely.
Which is dangerous thinking for a woman who’s supposed to be swearing off men entirely.
He unhooks my bra with practiced ease, and when it falls away, the look in his eyes makes my breath catch.
“Perfect,” he growls, and then his mouth is on my breast, tongue flicking over my nipple until I cry out.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
My hands tangle in his hair, holding him to me as he lavishes attention on my breasts. Every touch sends lightning straight to my core, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from the pleasure.
