Page 19 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
I squirm, hating his gaze on what is, to me, my ugliest and least beautiful area. I’m good with my cleavage—having big tits has its drawbacks for sure—running hurts, jumping is dangerous, stairs are my enemy, and button-down shirts are a joke—but they also are weapons I can and have used to my benefit. I’m also fine with having a juicy booty. It’s maybe a little juicier these days than it used to be for the aforementioned reasons, but for the most part, possessing a curvy, jiggly butt is more of an asset than a problem. I’m just not cool with my belly.
Stop looking at it. God, please stop looking at my belly. Look at my thighs, look at my hips, look at my tits—anywhere but there.
“Stop it,” Jesse growls.
I gulp. “Stop what?”
“Doubting yourself.”
I stare hard at him. “How did you—ummmm, I mean—what?”
His eyes fix on mine. “You just…shut down. I felt it. Don’t do that. Don’t ever doubt yourself.”
I snort. “Yeah, because it’s just that easy.”
“No, it’s probably not, but you’re a beautiful woman, Imogen. You have no reason to doubt yourself, or to be self-conscious about any part of your body.”
I’m deeply uncomfortable with the abrupt turn of events, and try to pull my foot away. “Jesse, I just—”
He holds on to my foot, refusing to relinquish it. “I get it, though,” he says.
He leans over me, his weight against my leg as he reaches for a strip of paper towel, wets it, folds it, and then straightens. As he does so, I feel his eyes on me again—this time sliding sensuously up my leg, from my calf to my thigh. I tense all over, fighting the urge to clamp my thighs together. It’s what I’d normally do, how I’ve always reacted in situations like this, even with someone I’ve been intimate with. It’s not that I’m shy or that I lack adventurousness sexually—it’s just…well, it’s complicated, and Jesse’s gaze is moving upward, destroying my train of thought.
Oh god.
I force myself to remain still—stock-still, not even breathing—as his eyes trail and traipse and dance up my thighs, my skin pebbling under his gaze. I swallow loudly, feeling faint, shaking all over.
Look at me.
Don’t look at me.
Touch me.
Don’t touch me.
I’m terrified and mortified.
I’m excited and thrilled and horny as hell.
His eyes halt at my core. I look where he’s looking—and yeah, there’s not a lot left to the imagination. I can’t breathe. Shit, I actually can’t breathe. Am I having an asthma attack? I don’t have asthma, but my lungs aren’t working.
I hear a deep, low snarl, and I realize it’s coming from him, from Jesse, as he stares at my core. He has no qualms about what he’s doing—there’s no apology or attempt to hide it or cover it up. I’m not pulling away or stopping him, so I can’t be mad about it, and honestly, his open, daring, greedy gaze is a hell of a turn-on.
I don’t know what that says about who I am, or rather who I’ve become.
And I don’t care.
It feels so naughty and almost dirty to let him stare at me like this. I barely know him—less than barely. We don’t even know each other’s last names. And here I am, sitting on my counter in an outfit a Hooter’s waitress wouldn’t wear, letting a man I literally just met stare at my lady parts. And I like it.
I really do.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I watch him carefully. His eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His hands curl into claws and then into fists, and his forearms and biceps bunch and flex as he squeezes his fists tight. And then, with a ragged huff, he loosens his fists and wiggles his fingers. Using the wet paper towel, he wipes gently at the long, shallow cut to the outside of my calf. His touch is so gentle, so careful, I barely feel it as he dabs and wipes the cut clean.
“There.” He cups my Achilles in one hand and lowers my leg. With an almost reluctant sigh, he presses my knees inward, closing my thighs, and steps away, tossing the paper towel in the trash by the fridge. “You were right. It’s not bad at all.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He’s in the middle of the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets. “Yeah.”
I hop down from the counter—a movement that sends my cleavage bouncing, a fact he doesn’t miss—and grab another pair of plates.
I dish out the food, hand him a plate and a fork and say, “I don’t have a dining room, and the kitchen is a little dusty, so in nice weather I eat out back.”
I’ve got a little round glass table and two chairs in the backyard, and it’s my favorite place in the world. I sit here in the mornings as weather allows and drink my coffee, and just breathe. The closest thing to peace is what I feel here, at this little table. It’s my place.
