Hot Dad
Hot Dad
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MAIN TROPES
- Single Dad
- BDSM
- Dom
- Cock-blocking kids
- Rom-com
- Firefighter
Synopsis
Synopsis
Sam
Since the moment I laid eyes on her I’ve wanted her.But I wasn’t ready.The kids were my world and my wounds were still raw.For six months, I watched her from afar.Dreamed of her, lusted after her, fantasized… But all that’s about to change.I’m finally ready to take the plunge and start dating again.And now that I know she’s single, I’m going to do this right and win Harper.I want her mind, I want her body, I want her heart.And when she gives me all access, no limits, I know she’s the one for me.
Harper
He’s the one we all call Hot Dad at playgroup.The one who makes my knees weak and my pulse race every time he walks through the door.We all watch him, and dream of him asking us out.But my kid is my world, and I’m a frumpy mom with a hole in the bum of her yoga pants.What could he ever see in me?So when Sam calls out of the blue, I’m stunned.Now if only the kids can stop cock-blocking us, and his psycho ex would go away.He’s turned out to be the alpha of my dreams and I’m willing and eager to be his forever.
**WARNING** The BDSM scenes in this book are not meant to depict the BD$M lifestyle. They are meant to depict amateur play and two people exploring their k!nks in a safe space.***Trigger warning: mental health disorder not PPD.
Intro to Chapter One
Intro to Chapter One
I fucking loved Mondays. No, seriously, I loved them. I know most people hate them, bitch, moan, snivel and complain about Mondays. People can have a “case of the Mondays” but not me. I loved them. Why? Because Monday was the day I saw my people. My coven. My mom posse. Well, moms and one hot, unobtainable dad. A dad I’d been secretly lusting over for six months but have had no more than half a dozen conversations with in that time. Monday was the day I took my toddler to playgroup at the rec center a few blocks away.
It was a day that for two glorious hours I engaged in a coffee- and chocolate-infused bitch-fest with my nearest and dearest as we ogled Hot Dad from afar and drooled over his ass when he spun around. My posse was filled with women just like me who were operating on far too little sleep and hadn’t peed alone in years let alone remembered the last time they washed and conditioned their hair. It was the one day of the week when I wasn’t made to feel guilty for plunking my kid down on the floor and letting her battle it out over the toy trains with another child, while I sipped my overpriced latte and had some much-needed adult talk.
But it was an ugly Monday. January was ugly. A West Coast baby to my very marrow, I loved nearly everything about living in Vancouver—except January. January weather was the worst! It held the kind of wet cold that slipped past all the layers of clothes and embedded itself deep in your bones. Rain, sleet, snow, wind. Like a sucker-punch to the kidneys, it made the whole city buckle, whine and wish for spring. Enough of this winter bullshit; bring on the flowers. This January was particularly nasty. We’d been hit with the snowfall of the decade on Christmas day, but by the new year it had warmed up just enough to melt the majority of it, leaving nothing but slush in the streets, brown patches, and clumps at the corner of people’s driveways and where kids had braved the chill to build snowmen or forts. But they were calling for another blast of cool weather from the north, so more snow was inevitable.
Great!
I finished the email I’d been writing on my laptop in the kitchen, hit send, then glanced through the wall cut-out at my happily playing child. Her bucket of dinosaurs sat between her legs as she methodically shoved each plastic reptile down the front of her loose-fitting tucked-in shirt. She insisted upon these kinds of shirts for this very reason.
“Two minutes, Carly,” I said as a warning. “Two minutes, then we’re going to get ready for playgroup.”
Not even a glance my way.
Ignoring her rudeness, I went about getting myself ready. Wool socks, waffle-knit long-sleeved gray T-shirt, black hoodie, yoga pants. Check. Check. Check. Check. I placed my dark purple Hunter rain boots by the front door, then pulled on my raincoat and grabbed Carly’s boots and jacket before wandering into the living room to go wrestle my toddler.
I crouched down to her level so we were face to face. “Come on, baby, we don’t want to be late for playgroup.”
Still not even a jerk of the head or a flick of her eyes. Fighting back the rush of frustration inside me, I gritted my teeth and took a couple of deep breaths. My sweet, agreeable little girl had embraced “two” like it was a new fashion trend, the toddler’s version of a man-bun or an electric bike.
I pulled her into my lap and sat down on the couch to slip on her boots. “It’s time to go. We don’t want to be late.”
“No booooooots!” she wailed, squirming in my lap before arching her back until she was as straight as a two-by-four. “No booooots!”
“Carly Elyse! We are going to playgroup,” I said with an exasperated sigh. The child had been up before the birds (not that there were many birds out in January), climbing out of her toddler bed and throwing my bedroom door open at five-forty screaming “bottle” at the top of her tiny lungs, only to then toss all of her plastic dinosaurs on my face.
But I needed to go to playgroup. Probably more than she needed to go. It was my sanctuary. My place of peace. My safe space where I could wear my ratty ponytail, my torn and pilling yoga pants, feed my caffeine addiction all without judgment while gossiping and commiserating with all the other sleep- and sex-deprived mums. Only their sex deprivation was due to lack of sleep and not because they didn’t have a man to share their bed. My sex deprivation was because I hadn’t gotten laid since the night Carly was conceived.
It was a masked, drunken tryst in the dark break room at the New Year’s Eve party of an art gallery downtown. I never even saw his face, never saw much besides an orgasm and a good time. But apparently, he’d been handsome, because my kid was gorgeous—thank God. My fiancé of three years had just dumped me on Christmas Day, less than two months before our Valentine’s Day wedding, and I was looking for hot and dirty rebound sex with a stranger.
I’d found it.
I’d gone off the pill in early December as Vance and I had planned to start trying for a family right after the wedding, but my masked lover had used a condom, and yet I still managed to get pregnant. And at thirty-two, I was getting a little desperate. I wanted children. The circumstances just weren’t ideal. But now here I was three years later, with a perfect, healthy two-year-old, living in my sister’s basement suite in the heart of Vancouver and making a modest wage with my home-based business. Not ideal, but things could certainly be worse.
I pulled her other boot on, then reached over to the arm of the couch for her coat and toque. Zipping up her coat, I paused at the sound from the child on my lap. Her little chest lurched. Panic flooded me.
We all knew that sound. The deep throat convulsing sound. It was probably most recognizable when being made by a dog. I kept saying they should make alarm clocks with that sound. People would never hit snooze if they woke up to that noise. But even coming from a toddler, it was distinct, and before I knew it, I found myself pitching forward and running for the kitchen sink. It was closer than the bathroom, and even if we didn’t make the sink, the laminate was better than the carpet.
Cheerios, apple, and scrambled egg all mixed with milk splattered to the kitchen floor as Carly started to heave in my arms.
“Oh no!” she cried. “Uh-oh!”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I cooed. “It’s okay.”
Ah, shit! I knew she was going to catch something from her cousins. Preschool and kindergarten were even bigger cesspools than playgroup.
Lillian and Emmet were both sick upstairs, having come home from school on Thursday because they’d lost their biscuits. They’d stopped puking by Saturday, but apparently Carly spending time with them Wednesday was enough. I looked at the calendar on the fridge. Yep, five-day incubation time. That’s exactly what my sister had said. Crap!
“Arly barted,” she whined, unable to pronounce the C in her name and deeply immersed in the third-person phase of her speech development. She referred to herself as Arly. And, of course, “barted” was her toddler butchering of “barfed.”
“It’s okay,” I said again. “Are you all done?”
“Yeah.”
I set her little feet down on the floor, then turned her to face me. An up-chucked Cheerio clung to her chin. I fought the urge to vomit and instead picked it off and tossed it into the sink. Her coat was covered in chunks, and the light-brown strands of hair that she refused to let me fix into a ponytail or clip were dripping with stomach carnage.
Surveying the damage, I tried to keep my face as neutral as possible. A sensitive soul and easily spooked, she would get upset if she noticed I was anything but calm. Her big brown eyes stared back at me, watery and confused.
“Arly okay, mama?” she asked.
I nodded. “You’re okay, baby. But we’re going to stay home today. No playgroup. We’re going to go have a quick shower, then cuddle up in our pajamas, watch movies and play dinosaurs. Sound good?”
Her eyes went wide and her smile even wider. “Dinosaurs!”
But then fear stole her glee, and before I knew it, I was holding her over the sink again as she tossed up more breakfast.
I guess I have to wait until next week to check out Hot Dad’s butt.