Page 12 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
My breasts aren’t enormous, not like those saline-filled melons Nicholas’s secretary carries around on her chest—flaunting them with every movement and accentuating them with inappropriately low-cut tops, which is most of the reason Nicholas is such a popular figure with the kids at his school, primarily the boys…
Anyway. My breasts? I cup them, lift them, let them fall, prop them up, let them sway, turn this way and that to examine them from different angles. If I’m fitting for comfort, I’m a D-cup, but if I want to prop these puppies up for maximum effect, I’d do a C, and I’d spill out of them. The number around is slowly increasing, again due to the effects of the divorce. They’re still pretty perky, though, I must say. I admire them in the mirror, playing with them. Smooth and perky, still in defiance of gravity despite the fact that I’m forty. They have some decent bounce to them, too.
I run my hands down my waist to my hips, and then turn to the side to check out the rear view. A little more juice back there than there used to be. I used to have a tight little ass, and I kept it that way with regular workouts that tended to feature a lot of leg and butt focus. These days, there are a few dimples back there, and on my thighs…and I have some stretch marks. Put on some Spanx and a tight dress, though? I can still work it.
Between my thighs? I’d have to say things have stayed nice and tight in that area. No kids, so…you know. I avoid that line of thought, though. I could use a trim, probably. I’ve been alone or effectively alone for nearly two years now, so the landscaping could use some updating, you could say. No one’s seeing that, so what reason is there to spend a lot of time on upkeep?
Time to take care of that.
I step into the shower and go through the motions of washing and conditioning my hair, washing my body, and then I shave my legs. And use my trimmer for the first time in…well, a while…to prune the shrubbery, so to speak. And by prune, I mean all but shave.
Just because it’s time, though.
It has nothing to do with the man downstairs.
I have no reason to think he’d ever be getting a peek at my shrubbery, or any other part of me.
None at all.
He’s here to fix my window.
That’s it.
It can’t hurt to daydream, though, right? A girl has needs, after all. Even childless, forty-year-old divorcées—especially childless forty-year-old divorcées.
Clean, shaved, and trimmed, I dry off and wrap a towel around my hair and another around my body, and dart back into my room. I hear noises in the kitchen, so I know Jesse is still where he’s supposed to be.
Instead of getting dressed, though, I perch on the edge of my bed, unwrap my hair from the towel, and idly pat and squeeze it with the towel, letting my mind wander to the sexy hunk of man downstairs.
What would he do if I went down there like this, in my towel? Would he look at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes? As if he couldn’t take his eyes off me? Would he be tempted to rip the towel off? Where would he look first? What would he touch first?
A man like Jesse? I imagine him to be a tits guy. His big strong callused hands would go to my breasts first. Cup them, thumbs brushing over my nipples. He’d probably tease me with kisses, never quite putting his mouth where I want it, not until I was crazy with need.
Which I am, right now.
He’d make quick work of the towel. After paying long, lavish attention to my breasts, his attention would finally wander south. As do my fingers, thinking about him.
God, I shouldn’t.
But I can’t help it, and a girl has to get her relief where she can find it, right?
It’s a matter of seconds before I’m wondering what he could do with his mouth besides tease me verbally, and while I imagine that, I find my trusty friend Miss Clitoral Stimulator and bring myself to release. I have to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep quiet, only remembering at the last second that the very man I’m thinking naughty thoughts about is downstairs, and that these floors and walls are thin.
When I can breathe normally again, I wash and put away my friend. I run a brush through my damp hair, and put on a little lip gloss.
But now I have a problem. If I were home by myself in this heat I would slip on my favorite summer lounging outfit: a tiny pair of bikini bottoms and my Bulls tank top that my tits don’t quite fit into. But that might be a bit much under the circumstances. I think for a moment and come up with something that will be cool, but a little less overt: my old thin red cotton shorts that are short but not too skanky, and the Bulls tank top, no bra.
