Page 120 of The Single Dad Project

On that thought, he gripped her hip and the back of her neck and set a steady, hard ride. He rocked inside her, and the sexual melody of skin smacking skin, the suction of wet flesh releasing and accepting a thrusting cock, his grunts and her whimpers filled the room.

He angled her hips, slamming his to hers, taking her over and over. He wanted to—needed to—lose himself in her. But the crackle and snap of electrical pulses tripping down his spine and burning the soles of his feet relayed he wouldn’t last much longer. But he refused to go over into that sweet oblivion without her. Reaching between them, he circled his thumb over her clit, ruthlessly teasing and circling the bundle of nerves.

“Give it to me, Brooklyn. Come for me,” he demanded, and as if she’d been waiting on those words, she stiffened, throwing her head back, and erupted with a soundless scream.

And after two, then three pounding strokes, he followed. Just as he would willingly follow her anywhere.

SOTHISWASPEACE. This was contentment.

He hadn’t believed he’d ever experience it again. Especially after his father’s death.

But this...calm that sank into his bones exceeded anything he’d experienced before. He hadn’t known what it was to be truly whole until now. Until he had Brooklyn’s scent on him, her body pressed to his, her breath whispering across his skin.

Patrick sighed, nuzzling Brooklyn’s curls.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, stroking his hand up and down her spine.

“Yes.”

She didn’t say more, but her formerly pliant, relaxed body gradually went rigid until she felt like a marble statue on his lap. The peace that had filled him slowly became a thing of the past as dread pressed down on his lungs, infiltrated his veins and spread the unease to every part of his body.

“Sweetheart?” He leaned back, pinched her chin and titled her head up. He needed to peer into her eyes and prayed that he would only glimpse remnants of the pleasure they’d just shared instead of remorse. “What’s wrong?”

He would hate to be her regret.

“I...” She turned her head, dislodging his hand. “I should get up. I need to get dressed.”

Her usually fluid movements jerky, she scooted off his thighs and bent down, hurriedly grabbing her clothes off the floor. For a moment all he could do was watch her dress, numb with shock and confusion. Finally, as she tugged the sweater material down over her legs, he jolted out of his paralysis and rose from the chair. Their nudity hadn’t bothered him just seconds ago, but now he felt exposed, raw.

Following suit, he dragged his clothes on and buttoning his shirt, he studied Brooklyn. Noted her trembling hands as she smoothed them over her hair, then down her hips. In the space of seconds, they’d gone from lovers to awkward strangers.

And he hated it.

“Brooklyn,” he murmured, abandoning his shirt and moving toward her, hand outstretched. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

She shifted backward, away from him, and he jerked to a stop, dropping his arm to his side. Pain bloomed behind his sternum, red hot and searing.

“Patrick.” She stroked her palm over her hair again, the gesture nervous, agitated. “I don’t...”

“Nothing’s changed,” he finished flatly.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered. “God, I don’t want to hurt you. But this...” Her lips flattened, and she briefly closed her eyes. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have—”

“Why? Give me your reasons why,” he demanded, voice a harsh rasp.

Give me your reasons why you’re throwing us away before we truly begin.

“Patrick, there are several reasons, and we can’t ignore any of them as if they’ll just disappear because we will them to. I’m your employer,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “You’re still my sister’s ex. We wouldn’t just be hurting her, but my whole family. Kayla and I might not be close, but I can’t do this—” she waved a hand back and forth between them “—to her.”

“So what’s changed? You were my boss when you moaned into my mouth. I was your sister’s ex when you welcomed me inside you. You were—”

“Please. Stop,” she rasped, holding up a hand, palm out.

But he didn’t stop. Not now when it seemed as if he was fighting for them. Not when he was losing. He moved forward until that palm pressed against his chest, and he covered her hand with his.

“I won’t. Not when you’re determined to place everyone’s opinions about who you are and what you do above your own. What do you want? What about your happiness? Isn’t yours as important—if not more—than anyone else’s? Don’t you deserve a life that doesn’t just include work but love? You should be a priority in your own life.”

“Are you kidding me?” She snatched her hand out from under his. “Are you really saying this to me? Sex doesn’t suddenly make you an expert on me or what I should want or deserve.”

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