Page 4 of Tempting the Single Dad (Curvy Girls of Whitetails Falls #1)

He laughs, a deep rumble that vibrates through me as he tugs at the hem of my sweater. "May I?"

I nod, lifting my arms as he pulls it over my head. The cool night air slipping through barn cracks raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, quickly chased away by the heat of his gaze.

His calloused fingertips drift over the swell of my breasts, down to my ribs, circling my navel, mapping me with deliberate patience that makes my breath come faster.

When he finally cups my breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple through lace, the sensation sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.

I reach behind to unhook my bra, but he stops me, covering my hands with his. "Let me," he says, voice rough with desire. "I want to unwrap you slowly."

The bra falls away, and I resist the urge to cover myself. The way he looks at me, like I'm a priceless work of art he's been granted exclusive viewing rights to, banishes any insecurity about my body.

"Perfect," he breathes, palming the weight of my breasts, thumbs circling nipples that tighten under his touch.

When he lowers his head to take one in his mouth, the wet heat of his tongue sends lightning through me.

I arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, a desperate sound escaping my throat.

His hand drifts lower, unbuttoning my jeans with deft fingers. He looks up, seeking permission, and I nod frantically, lifting my hips to help him slide the denim down my thighs. My boots complicate matters, and we both laugh as he kneels to tug them off, followed by my jeans.

The sight of him on his knees before me, looking up with hunger in his eyes, makes me bold. I slide off the hay bale to join him on the floor, the rough wood warm beneath my knees.

"Can I?" I ask, hands moving to his belt, looking up through my lashes.

His breath catches audibly. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "God, yes."

I take my time with his belt, the leather smooth against my fingers. The metallic rasp of his zipper seems loud in the quiet barn, punctuated only by our breathing and the distant thrum of festival music.

When I finally free him from his boxers, I can't help but stare appreciatively. He's thick and hard, a bead of pre-cum already gathering at the tip.

The first taste of him is salt and musk, and the broken sound he makes when my lips close around him is deeply satisfying.

"Like this," he guides softly, one hand cradling my cheek, the other gently directing my rhythm.

"Not too deep... yes, use your hand too.

.." His instruction is tender, appreciative, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control.

"That's perfect," he murmurs, his voice deeper than before, roughened by restraint. "Just like that."

The praise sends heat flooding through me, pooling between my thighs.

I should feel intimidated by the years between us, but instead, I'm dizzy with the thrill of it—of being taught, guided, molded by hands that have learned patience through experience.

It's dangerous how much I crave his approval, how desperately I want to please this man.

I lose myself in the act, the velvet hardness against my tongue, the way his thighs tense when I find a particularly sensitive spot, the heavy sound of his breathing. His fingers thread through my hair, not pushing, just connecting, occasionally tightening when pleasure threatens to overwhelm him.

"Miranda," he groans, tugging gently to pull me away.

He helps me to my feet, claiming my mouth in a kiss that tastes of desperation and desire. When his fingers finally slip beneath the fabric to find me wet and ready, we both moan.

"You're so wet," he murmurs against my lips, circling my entrance teasingly before sliding a finger inside. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," I gasp as he adds a second finger, stretching me deliciously. "Only you."

He turns me gently, guiding me to face the hay bales, his solid warmth at my back. One arm circles my waist, holding me steady as his other hand pushes my panties down. They fall to my ankles, and I step out of them, suddenly hyperaware of being naked while he's still partially clothed.

The disparity in our states of undress shouldn't excite me, but it does. His jeans rough against the backs of my thighs, the leather of his belt buckle cool against my skin.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice tight with restraint as he positions himself against me. His hand slides around to where I'm aching for him, fingers circling my clit in maddening patterns.

"Yes," I breathe, pressing back against him. "Please, David."

When he finally pushes inside, it makes me gasp and clutch at the hay bale for support. He enters me slowly, inch by inch, one hand splayed across my stomach, the other braced beside mine on the hay.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, his lips brushing my ear, beard tickling my shoulder.

He holds still when fully seated, allowing me to adjust, his breathing harsh against my neck. The moment stretches, taut with anticipation, until I wiggle my hips impatiently.

His chuckle vibrates through me. "Eager?"

"Please move," I whimper, beyond pride or patience.

His first thrust drives the air from my lungs, controlled power that makes my knees weak.

He establishes a rhythm that's neither gentle nor rough, each stroke deliberate, angled to hit places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids.

His fingers dig into my hips, guiding me back to meet him, our bodies finding a primal harmony.

The hay scratches my palms, the stove's heat warms my skin, and somewhere outside, fiddle music winds through the night. The contrast between the wholesome festival and what we're doing, half-dressed and desperate in a volunteer barn, adds a forbidden thrill that heightens every sensation.

"Wait," he gasps suddenly, slowing his movements. "Not like this. I want to see you."

He withdraws carefully, turning me to face him. The loss of him inside me is momentarily frustrating, but then he's lifting me back onto the hay bales, his strength effortless and sexy. He settles between my thighs again, one hand cradling my face, the other guiding himself back to my entrance.

"Better," he says, voice thick with emotion as he pushes back inside. "I need to see you."

The new angle sends pleasure spiraling through me. I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, my nails digging into his shoulders. In his gaze, I see not just desire but recognition, as if he's seeing parts of me I've kept hidden from everyone else.

His pace increases, driven by my encouraging moans and the way my body tightens around him. My thighs begin to tremble, inner muscles clenching around him as tension builds at the base of my spine.

"I'm close," I warn, feeling the precipice approaching.

"Let go," he urges, his rhythm faltering as he fights his own release. "I've got you."

My orgasm crashes over me in waves, starting deep inside and radiating outward until even my fingertips tingle with it. I cry out his name, the sound swallowed by his kiss as he continues to move within me, drawing out my pleasure until I'm shaking and oversensitive.

Only then does he allow his own control to snap. His thrusts become erratic, powerful, his hands gripping me with an intensity that will likely leave marks. When he comes, it's with my name on his lips and his face buried in my neck, his entire body tensing before shuddering against mine.

For long moments, we remain tangled together, his weight partially supported on his forearms, our heartbeats gradually slowing in tandem. The twinkle lights above us blur into stars as I blink away unexpected tears—not of sadness but overwhelming emotion.

"Hey," he murmurs, noticing immediately. His thumb gently wipes moisture from the corner of my eye. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head, smiling through the emotion that's caught me off guard. "No, it's just... I've never felt like that before."

He presses his forehead to mine, understanding in his eyes. "Me neither. Not for a very long time."