As a single mom in a small town, there's only one thing I want. Another baby. When all the roads to getting what I want lead to dead ends, I turn to one of my best friends for help.
In my mind, Trent Castillo is the perfect baby daddy. He has good g...
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After we slot the last dish into the dishwasher, Trent tugs me into his body, his hand going into my hair, and he angles his head drawing me into a deep kiss.
And I can't help the moan that escapes, the way I meet his kiss with the same pent-up desire. It's been weeks since we last kissed, and I can't believe how much I want this, how much nerves aren't even a factor. If he stopped right now, changed his mind, I'd cry about more than the loss of a potential baby.
He lifts me onto the counter to stand between my legs, and he runs a rough palm from my ankle and up to my thigh. His fingers curve around to my inner thigh, but he doesn't move them where I'm dying for them to explore, instead he kneads my flesh.
"Fuck, I love that I get to touch you like this," he says. "You have no idea how much I've thought about it."
Then he's kissing me again before I can respond or even really process what he's said. His hands are up the back of my dress, unsnapping my bra on their way to the nape of my neck, drawing me closer and tighter as he kisses me more. His thumb grazes my raised nipple, and I gasp at the contact.
He breaks the kiss to peer around the kitchen. "Are all the blinds closed?"
"I closed them all when I got home."
"In case I came home and fucked you on the table?"
"I wasn't sure how it would go," I say, but I almost can't concentrate because his hands have continued to explore my body while he's been talking. He keeps coming close to where I really, really want them without actually getting there—skimming the edge of my panties with his fingertips but not fully engaging.
"I know exactly how it's going to go," he says, giving me a wicked grin before lifting me off the counter.
I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck as he carries us out of the kitchen. He stops in the hallway and grabs a bag and a couple towels before turning into the living room.
"Here?" I say, surprised.
"Definitely here," he says, laying me on the wide couch. "One hundred percent here."
Then he's cradled between my legs, my dress around my waist, and he's back kissing me, his rough hands kneading and gently squeezing while he rocks between my thighs. He's hard against my sensitive core, and I moan at each contact.
I can't even remember the last time I was so turned on. Even getting myself off hasn't been that great the last few years, as though my brain can't find anything worth imagining.
The reality of this, though, I'll have memories, remembered sensations, for years. There's definitely something chemical between me and Trent—pheromones on overdrive.
He pulls me up, and my dress goes over my head with my bra, and then I'm left in just my panties. He tugs at the back of his shirt, drawing it over his head, and I can't help scanning his muscles, the tattoos that litter his chest. I want to trace each one with my tongue, ask why he got them and what they mean.
