Page 5 of Second Chance Daddy
“Do what?” His voice is rough, and his eyes are so dark they’re almost black.
“Make out with guys in parking lots. My track record with bad decisions is already pretty spectacular, but this feels like I’m reaching new heights of stupidity.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound vibrates through his chest where I’m still pressed against him.
“Stupidity?”
“Oh yeah. Epic levels of dumb. I literally just got out of a marriage to a complete psychopath, and here I am, throwing myself at another dangerous man. I should probably have my head examined.”
Or maybe I should just shut up and enjoy this while it lasts.
“I’m not dangerous,” he says, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests otherwise.
“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”
His mouth curves into a smile that makes me feel funny things. “Your Majesty.”
Oh, hell. If he keeps being charming, I’m going to do something really, really stupid.
Like beg him to take me right here, right now.
“Fuck, Cassie,” he groans against my lips. “You taste even better than I imagined.”
He imagined this? Oh, hell.
“Dante,” I breathe, not even sure what I’m asking for.
But he seems to know, because his hands are everywhere—sliding down my sides, gripping my hips, pressing me back against the car until I can feel every hard inch of him.
I should stop this. This is crazy. I don’t know this version of him. The boy I kissed seven years ago was sweet, almost hesitant. This man is something else entirely.
This man is dangerous.
And apparently, I’m into that.
His mouth trails down my neck, and I arch into him, chasing the heat. My hands find the hem of his shirt, and when I slide them underneath, his skin is hot and smooth and absolutely perfect.
“God, your hands,” he mutters against my throat.
“Is this really happening?” I ask, because, honestly, it feels like a dream. A really good dream.
“Do you want it to be?”
Yes, God, yes.
But instead of saying that, because I still have one functioning brain cell left, I say: “I don’t know what I want.”
Lie. Total lie. I know exactly what I want, and it’s standing right in front of me, with his hands on my hips and his mouth doing sinful things to my neck.
He pulls back to look at me, and his eyes are darker than I remember. “Then let me help you figure it out.”
His hands slide down to my thighs, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s lifting me onto the hood of my car.
“Dante,” I gasp, but it comes out more like a moan.
“Tell me to stop,” he says again, his hands bracketing my hips as he steps between my legs.
Stop? Are you insane?
