Page 67 of The Single Dad Project

“Generational scars or curses—they don’t define us or set us on a path like some divining rod. One can be healed and the other broken. Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Adam?” she asked. “That you’re destined to be your father? Because that’s bullshit, as you once so eloquently put it to me. We’re not our parents or their parents, and so on down the line. We take our history, glean from it the information we need to stay the course or change it. Every day we wake up, we have the opportunity to choose to be different, to behave different. We are not prisoners to our family tree or DNA.”

Logically, he agreed with her. Things like being a bad, selfish partner didn’t pass down through genetics like eye color or body frame.

But he also knew that nurture and nature were just two sides of the same coin. He’d strived all his life to be as unlike his father as possible—levelheaded, not jealous, open-minded—but none of that seemed to matter. He’d still run off his partner. He’d still failed at marriage and keeping his wife happy and contented—at keeping his family together.

No matter what he told himself in the light of day, he couldn’t escape the shadows of his heart.

“You’re not a bad bet, Adam,” she softly added.

“I’m not a safe one, either.”

She stared at him, then slowly stood from the couch. And straddled his lap.

Surprise whipped through him and he blinked, unmoving. Well, most of him was unmoving. As she settled on top of him, pressing her hot center over his cock, it stirred, thickened. Neither it nor he had forgotten the sweet oblivion they’d found inside her, the tight, wet clasp of her. After all, how did a person possibly not remember the single most erotic experience of his life?

And here she was, sitting on top of him, only a couple layers of clothes preventing him from sliding inside her again.

“Flo,” he murmured, his hands rising to cradle her hips.

He should lift her up and off. Place much needed space between them. But instead, his fingers tightened their grip, holding her to him.

“Sometimes safe is overrated,” she whispered, sliding her hands up his chest to hook behind his neck.

The softness of her touch, the sensuality of it, burned away the reasons why this was such a bad idea, and they drifted away like steam. And when she lowered her head, he didn’t evade her. No, he tipped his head back and met her halfway. Their mouths barely connected before he thrust his tongue between her lips, greedy for the taste of her that had been haunting him for... God, it seemed like forever.

Or maybe he was just that addicted to her.

He shoved that too-dangerous thought aside, and dove deeper into her mouth, sucked her tongue harder, groaned louder. Drowning himself in the flavor and scent—thefeelof her under his palms—distracting himself from the very real fear trickling into his veins.

The thing about addiction?

It wasn’t just physical. The mind, the brain, cried out for that next hit just as much as the body.

Everything in him craved Flo’s taste, the feel of her smooth, soft skin under his palms. The thrill of that sleek body and those subtle curves moving against him. The sweet oblivion found in burying himself inside her.

Yeah, addiction was a hazardous pitfall.

And yet, he stroked a hand up her slim back and tunneled his fingers through her hair, gripping the locs to hold her head still as he took her mouth harder, with a need that made him less gentle. But she didn’t seem to mind. No, if the jerking of her hips and stroking of her sex over his cock were any indications, she didn’t mind at all. Good. Because with this hunger roaring through him, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down.

In just a matter of weeks, he’d become insatiable for her.

And though that sent another streak of unease racing through him, he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop himself from plunging repeatedly between her lips for another lick, another suck. Couldn’t stop grinding against her with every rock of her hips. Couldn’t stop from lifting his other hand to cup a firm breast, pinch the beaded tip.

Just. Couldn’t. Stop.

She arched into his touch, one of her hands lowering to cover his. But not to remove it; she squeezed his fingers, silently encouraging him to handle her harder. He plumped the flesh, molding and tweaking the tip through her shirt. He raked his teeth and lips down the elegant line of her throat, nipping the sensitive base. A shiver rippled through her, vibrating against him, through him. The reaction tossed kindling on an already roaring flame, and he drew her skin between his teeth, sucking on it, hoping like hell he bruised her. He’d reverted to a teenage boy who wanted to leave his mark so any and everyone could see he’d had the pleasure, the honor of touching her, kissing her. That for even this short amount of time, she was his to brand.

Yeah. Teenage boyandcaveman.

Fisting her locs again, he tugged her head back up and pressed a hard kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Look at me, queen,” he ordered, his voice sounding rough, ragged to his own ears.

She lifted her lashes, and in her eyes, he glimpsed the lust swamping him in greedy, potent waves. It was intoxicating, and the surge of power that pulsed inside him damn near eclipsed the pleasure. This beautiful, gifted woman grantedhimthe permission to put his mouth and hands on her, andhecaused those gorgeous eyes to go dark.Hecaused her to tremble. He was the reason those slim, toned thighs quivered around his legs. He vacillated between awe and hunger.

“Show me where you need me.” Splaying his fingers wide between her breasts, he waited, the pounding of her heart under his palm echoing the beat in his own chest. “What do you want from me?”

He was courting danger, poking it like a relentless child; he acknowledged this. But could he stop? No. They were too far past the time for caution. At least that was what his throbbing pulse and aching dick told him.

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