Page 7 of Second Chance Daddy
“Dante, please,” I gasp, unsure of what I’m begging for.
“Please, what?” he asks against my skin.
“I need... I need...”
“Tell me, Cassie. Tell me what you need.”
You. I need you.
“More,” I whisper. “I need more.”
His hands slide down to my jeans, and I lift my hips so he can pull them down my legs along with my panties. The metal of the car hood is cold against my bare skin, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m something precious. Something to be worshiped.
“Spread your legs for me,” he says, his voice rough with want.
I should be embarrassed. I should be mortified. I’m naked on the hood of my car in a public parking lot, for crying out loud.
But I’m not. I’m just... alive.
I do as he asks, spreading my legs wide, and the look he gives is so damn hot.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, and then he’s kneeling between my legs.
Oh, hell. This is really happening.
The first touch of his tongue against my core makes me arch off the hood with a cry. He chuckles against me; the vibration sends shockwaves through my body.
“Quiet, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to get arrested.”
Arrested. Right. Because we’re in public. Because anyone could walk by and see us.
I should care about that. I really should.
But when he licks me again, slow and deliberate, all rational thought goes out the window.
He takes his time, building my pleasure with methodical precision. His tongue circles my clit, dips inside me, traces patterns that make my toes curl and my back arch.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans against me. “Better than I imagined.”
He imagined this, too? God, what does that do to a girl’s ego?
His fingers join his tongue, sliding into me while his mouth works my clit, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming.
This is insane. This is absolutely insane.
And I never want it to stop.
“Dante,” I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair. “I’m going to?—”
“Come for me,” he commands against my skin. “Come on my tongue.”
And I do. Oh God, I do.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over me until I’m shaking and gasping and probably making too much noise for a public parking lot.
But I don’t care. I can’t care about anything except the way he’s making me feel.
