Page 32 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“It was my pleasure, Imogen,” he says, his voice warm and genuine and pleased.
I watch him take his tools over to the truck as I stand in my new bedroom window.
He tosses his tool belt on the passenger seat through the open window, sets his toolbox in the bed, and then bungee cords a tarp over the detritus in his truck bed. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turns over the engine, which kicks to life with a throaty diesel rumble. I watch him plug his phone in, scroll a moment, and then the grinding, thrashing, churning sound of the heavy metal music he likes so much drifts up to me at the window, partially muffled but still loud.
As he backs out, his eyes look for me.
A bolt of daring slams through me; I don’t give myself time to second-guess or doubt myself.
I grasp the hem of my shirt and lift it up. For a reason I couldn’t have explained, when I got dressed this morning I put on my favorite, fanciest, raciest bra, a barely there demi bra in vivid red lace. I don’t stop at just lifting my scrub shirt up for a quick flash, though—oh no. When I do something rash and possibly stupid, I go all the way.
I take my shirt off completely.
And then, just because I’m the way I am, I tug the knot of my scrub pants, which promptly fall into a pool around my ankles, revealing the fact that I’m wearing the matching red thong.
Jesse, still backing out, is looking at me rather than where he’s going and almost crashes into a car passing behind him—it honks its horn angrily and Jesse slams on his brakes just in time.
I cringe at having almost caused him to wreck but, at the same time, I’m pleased I had that effect on him.
And then, with a crunch of gears, he throws his truck into park, leaves it running, shoves open his door, and storms back toward my house.
His expression isn’t angry, it’s…
I don’t know what it is, because he’s through my front door and stomping up the stairs before I have time to register what’s happening.
And he’s in my bedroom doorway, filling the frame, shoulders heaving, eyes sparking, fists clenched.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I breathe, “I didn’t mean to almost cause a wreck.”
“Imogen, you can’t pull a stunt like that and think there won’t be consequences,” he growls.
Chapter 7
“I—I—”
That’s all I get out before he’s across the room, his bulk pinning me back against the wall beside the window, his lips slanting across mine, slamming roughly, tongue eagerly, forcefully demanding mine. I give in to him, give him my tongue, give him my lips, and press my body up against his. His zipper presses hard against me, the bulge behind it even harder.
I throb.
My core is damp, slick, and hot.
I pulsate with need, every vessel and molecule and pore of my body demanding more.
His hands cup my waist, gently at first, and then when I respond so voraciously to his kiss, his fingers tighten into claws. They scrape down and latch onto my hips, dimpling the flesh. His fingers walk around to grasp my buttocks, taking a palmful of each cheek and pulling against him, grinding himself against me.
I whimper.
Moan.
“Jesse,” I breathe. “Please.”
I don’t know what I’m asking for. What I even want.
My voice, the whimper, his name, my plea—it seems to shake him out of a trance. He abruptly releases me, staggering backward. His jeans are tented at the zipper, his chest is heaving, his eyes are narrowed and full of fire.
“I have to go,” he snarls. “I—have to go.”
“Jesse, I—”
He shakes his head, backing away from me. “Don’t. Not a word. I have to go, and you are far too tempting to be good for either of us right now.”
I just stand there, returning his stare, trying not to feel rejected. I’m in my bra and underwear, wanting him, kissing him, and he’s walking away.
He hesitates at the door. Wipes his lips with the back of his hand as if to wipe away the residue of my kiss. And then with a wordless growl, stalks back over to me. “Fuck it,” he says, and kisses me again.
This time, I put all I have into the kiss. I do the one thing I’ve wanted to do since the moment I laid eyes on him—well, the two things, in a particular order: I run my hands through his thick glossy unruly black hair, slide my palms down his broad hard back, and take a double handful of his butt.
It’s every bit as rock hard as I thought it would be.
I don’t want to let go.
He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away. “Imogen. I have to go. I can’t blow off our biggest clients.”
“I know.”
He rubs a thumb across my lip. “But don’t think it’s easy for me to walk away.”
