One Baby Daddy (Dating by Numbers #3)(32)

We both sit and before she takes her plate in her hands again, I stop her. “Hey.”

She looks at me with a question in her eyes, and all I can think is how fucking gorgeous she is.

“I didn’t get to tell you how beautiful you look tonight.”

That blush of hers takes over again. Will she blush the same way in bed, when I’m pulsing in and out of her? When she comes, does she blush, or does her face morph into something entirely more perfect, if possible?

“Thank you.”

Passing my eyes over her body again, I take in her pink dress that’s loose at her hips, but cinches in at her breasts, her cleavage killing me, and that pink makes her skin look unbearably smooth. It makes me want to run my hands up and down her entire body, slowly peeling away the fabric, revealing what’s underneath.

Is she wearing anther thong? Is she commando? Is she even wearing a bra?

I take a quick peek, and it doesn’t look like it. Fuck . . . it doesn’t look like it at all, not with how her nipples are pebbling against the fabric.

“Are you going to eat your cake?”

“What?” I clear my throat and shake the images of her hardened nipples out of my head. Get it together, man.

“Your cake, are you going to eat it?” She thumbs at my solo plate on the coffee table.

“Oh yeah, sorry.” I pick up the cake, and I’m quickly consumed by the chocolaty flavor. “This smells so fucking good.”

She takes a forkful and I watch in fascination as her exquisite lips wrap around the metal tongs, pulling the chocolate, smooth and velvety. Her eyes shut, her head tilts back, her jaw moves erotically until she swallows, the long column of her neck, working the chocolate down, pulse after pulse.

Eating has never looked so sexy.

And never in my life have I ever paid such close attention to an everyday action.

“You like it?” I ask, my voice cracking, my focus traveling from the soft column of her neck, to her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts in that sweet dress.

The night I first met her, she wore simple shorts and a T-shirt. I’ve seen her in scrubs and I’ve seen her in jeans as well, but this dress? I know it’s simple, but it’s revealing and made for her body, accentuating her shapely legs, her full breasts, and her smooth skin.

“I think it’s one of the best cakes I’ve ever had.” She eyes my plate and asks, “What are you waiting for? Are you nervous I poisoned it? Pausing to see if I croak after taking a bite?”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted tonight. You look so damn good, Adalyn.”

“You mentioned that.” Head tilted to the side, she licks some icing off her fork.

Dead. I’m slowly fucking dying inside. Was her mission to torture me, to get me to break tonight? Because she’s doing one hell of a job. “Are you wishing you kissed me earlier now?”

I swallow hard.

I’m wishing I did a hell of a lot more than kiss.

“You’re making it hard on a guy, that’s all.”

“Good.” She lays her legs across mine and scoots closer, the hem of her dress kissing her upper thighs. “Because I’m going to tell you right now, if you don’t at least kiss me tonight, I might go crazy.”

She’s as desperate as me at this point. Good. I’ve always been about delayed gratification when it comes to relationships. I like to feel the chemistry first; I like to know there’s something real between us before I make the first move. Lust can cloud your outlook on a person and being a “celebrity”—someone in the limelight—I like to make sure the woman I’m with is interested in me and not my profession.

“I’m making no promises.” I take my first bite of the cake and quietly moan. Fuck, this is good. Probably not as good as biting into Adalyn, but I’ll take this for now.

Poking my shoulder with her clean fork, she says, “And I’m making no promises of keeping my clothes on.”

Fucking minx.

Plates are cleared, light music plays in the background, and Adalyn is curled against me, my arm wrapped around her, my hand resting on her hip as she’s tucked into my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest, her fingers lightly playing with the fabric of my shirt.

“Do you think your family will like me? Well, perhaps I’m asking more about your dad and brothers here.”

A lonely cricket chirps in the background, adding to the summer-like ambiance surrounding us. Adalyn draped a blanket over us about half an hour ago once the temperature dropped. I feel goosebumps on her arms but every time I ask her if she wants to go inside or if she wants a sweater, she tells me she doesn’t want to move.

“My dad? He’s not a pushover, but he has age and life on his side to trust my judgment more than my brothers do. However, the boys are a tough crowd. Very protective. There aren’t many men they would approve of.”

“Hmm . . . do any of them like hockey?”

She chuckles and pushes against my chest. “You can’t win them over with autographed paraphernalia.”

Laughing and oddly loving the little jabs from her finger, I say, “A guy can try. Hell, to win them over, I’m not above whoring my teammates or myself out. I have access to all the Brawlers. I can get them to sign anything. Season tickets, done. What do they want?”