Page 45 of One Baby Daddy
She shakes her head. “No, you’re not.” Her fingers play with the short strands on the back of my head, a comforting touch. “Now tell me what the other reasons are why hockey is better than football.”
Damn this woman. Just when I’m trying to pretend to be mad at her, she distracts me. Sighing, I lean back, taking her with me so I’m sitting upright and she’s straddling my lap, her knees now pressed against the seat cushion. To keep her where I want her, I place my hands firmly on her hips, plastering her heated center to my lap.
She feels so fucking good.
Her thumbs rub a little patch of skin on my neck, soothing my tension to zero. Slouching, I enjoy the view in front of me, of this beautifully addicting woman, as I explain exactly why my sport is so much better.
“Besides the long season and numerous games, plus the badass trophy at the end, hockey takes more precision, more focus. Not only are we being tackled—using a football term for you—but we’re doing it on skates while trying to control a small three-inch puck with a stick.”
“What else?” She shifts on my lap causing a light groan to rumble from my chest.
“Uh, we have fights, all-out brawls, and they’re not stopped right away like in football.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her hands fall to my pecs where her palms rest, her fingers playing with the patch of skin exposed from my button-down shirt. Unabashedly, she undoes two more buttons, and pulls my shirt open, exposing more of my chest.
Fuck.
Another shift on my lap, but this time, her hips continue to slowly move back and forth.
A low hiss escapes my lips.
Every part of me hardens, from my grip on her hips, encouraging her rocking, to the muscles in my chest where she’s stroking my pecs, to my quickly growing cock.
“What else, Hayden?”
I’m blanking. What else is good about hockey?
“In hockey, there’s . . .”Shit, her hands feels so good.“In hockey . . .”
What’s good about Adalyn? The way her breasts sway with her movements, the way her nipples are so impossibly hard right now, and how she lightly bites on her bottom lip while she rocks above me.
“Uh . . . nachos,” I mumble. “We have nachos.”
“There are nachos in football.”
“But these nachos . . .” She grinds on me. “Fuck . . . these nachos are . . . so good. Fuck, that’s so good.”
My head falls to the back of her couch, my eyes shut, Adalyn glides over me, her pace picking up now. Slipping her hands inside my shirt, she scrapes her fingers along my nipples and I swear to God, I nearly come apart.
“Adalyn.”
“Hmm?”
“You feel . . . goddamn, you feel . . .”
“What?” Her head is bent forward now, her mouth near my ear. “How do I feel?”
“Fucking perfect,” I hiss when she grinds down harder.
“Good.” She nips my earlobe and then lifts off me in one swift movement, taking her warmth, her touch, her seductive ways with her.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask, watching her walk into the house.
“It’s getting late. You should probably get going.”
“Going?” My eyebrows shoot up. Pocketing my loose phone, I stand—painfully—my cock scraping along the crotch of my jeans. “What happened to staying over?”
Like a needy puppy dog, I follow her into her house and shut the screen door. She’s in the kitchen fiddling with dishes when I come up behind her, pressing my front to her back, my hands to her hips, my mouth hovering near her ear.
