Page 101 of Mile High Ex's Dad
That does something dangerous to me.
I kiss him harder.
He groans low in his throat and lifts me into his lap without breaking the kiss. I go willingly, my knees parting around him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other in his hair. The heat of him under me is immediate and overwhelming. I can feel how hard he already is through his trousers, and the knowledge of it makes me gasp.
He takes that gasp and kisses me deeper.
“You have any idea,” he murmurs against my mouth, “what you’re doing to me?”
I shake my head, because I don’t, not fully. I only know that I have never wanted someone this fast, this badly. It feels bigger than a rebound already, bigger than revenge, bigger than the dull ache Ethan left behind.
This feels like hunger.
And maybe, if I were stupid enough to name it this early, a kind of worship.
His mouth drags down my throat. His hand spans my waist, then slides up my back, then back down again, learning the shape of me through my clothes. Every touch is deliberate. Every pause feels like choice.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
I can’t.
Not because I’m weak. Because I don’t want to.
So instead I whisper, “Don’t.”
That’s all it takes. He pulls back just enough to look at me, and whatever he sees there must satisfy him, because the next second his hand is under my skirt and his mouth is on mine again and I’m gone.
His hand slides up the inside of my thigh, slow enough to make me ache before he even touches where I need him.
I’m already wet. That embarrasses me for half a second, until he groans under his breath when he feels it and the sound turns the embarrassment into something hotter.
“Christ,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You’re drenched.”
His fingers drag through me once, firm and slow, and I jolt in his lap.
He smiles into the kiss. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Like a man who is far too pleased with himself and has earned the right. “So responsive,” he says. “I barely touch you and you’re ready to come apart for me.”
I should be mortified by how true that is. Instead I grind down against his hand and feel his cock jerk hard under me.
That makes him laugh, low and rough. “There she is.”
He hooks one finger into the side of my underwear and moves it aside. Then he rubs my clit with the pad of his thumb, just enough pressure to make my whole body tighten.
“Oh God.”
“No,” he says, voice dropping. “Look at me.”
I do. That’s the mistake.
Because he’s watching me with a kind of focus that makes everything feel bigger.
He circles my clit again, a little harder, and I gasp and clutch his shoulders.
“Good girl,” he says softly.
The praise goes straight through me.
His mouth drops to my neck while his fingers keep moving. Not hurried. Not fumbling. He knows exactly how to touch me, even now, like he can feel which pressure makes me arch and which one makes me whimper and which one has me rocking against his hand before I can help it.
