Page 34 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
Oh god—I come hard, immediately, thinking of Jesse’s beard rasping against my thighs and his tongue slicking against my opening—
Even as I come, I reach for the stimulator and crank it all the way up, press it to myself, and slide two fingers inside, wishing and pretending it’s him, and that he’s here in all his masculine, muscular glory. I come a second time imagining him touching me, licking me, kissing me, moving over me to fill me…
But even when I’ve come twice and I’m too overstimulated to come again, I’m not sated. The tension and the need are still there.
If anything, getting myself off thinking about Jesse is only making it worse.
Two days later, as I’m retrieving my mail, I find an envelope with my name scrawled on it in thick black Sharpie. Inside is an invoice printed on a Dad Bod Contracting header. It’s a very neat, professional invoice, breaking down the labor for the window installations.
Twelve hundred dollars. I go faint at first, but then after thinking about it, I realize that twelve hundred dollars to remove eleven old windows, widen the openings, install new windows, and create a whole new opening on the stairs is…well, it’s all but thievery on my part.
A hundred bucks per window, essentially.
I don’t have the money, since the mortgage is due soon and I don’t get my last check from Dr. Bishara for another week, but I write a check for the exact amount anyway and put it in an envelope, copy the address listed on the invoice, and put a stamp on it. It’s not until after I’ve put the check in the mailbox, lifted the flag, and gone back inside that I realize Jesse wrote a note on the back of the invoice:
* * *
Imogen,
I wish James would let me not charge you, but he’s a tightwad like that. I really have had an amazing time working on your house (and getting to know you!) and I hope, selfishly, that you have something else on your Honey-Do list just so I can come back over and fix it.
Or, just call me. Or text me.
Even if something isn’t broken, if you’re so inclined.
Hope to talk to you again soon,
Jesse O’Neill
* * *
PS: don’t be too surprised if I just show up at some point. I may not be able to help myself.
* * *
I have his number in my phone, so I bring up a new thread and try to figure out what to say to him.
Me: I have a check in the mail for you. Thanks for being so cheap! You deserve so much more than what you charged me for the amazing work you did. Say thanks to Franco and the others for me.
Jesse: You could have waited to send the check. No rush. And you’re welcome. Wish it could have been less, or free. I feel wrong about charging you. Franco says if you want to thank him, meet us at Billy Bar. It’s our favorite local watering hole. He’ll buy you drinks as thanks.
Me: Him buying me drinks as thanks makes no sense. I do know where Billy Bar is, but I have to work early in the morning, so I’ll have to take a rain check on that tonight. Thanks for the invite, though.
Jesse: Consider it a standing invitation. We’re there pretty much every night after work. Not late, and we don’t go hard…not anymore at least. Just a few buddies having a few drinks. Low key.
Jesse: If you ever do come, I’ll buy you a few shots of tequila and hope tequila works on you like it does the girl in the Joe Nichols song.
Me: LOL. Didn’t peg you for a country music fan.
Jesse: I’m not, but James is, and if we have to ride together in his truck, country is all he’ll listen to. Gag.
Jesse: Does it, though?
Me: Does it what?
Jesse: Make your clothes fall off.
Me: at this point in my life, Jesse, pretty much any alcohol will make my clothes fall off. A slight breeze, for that matter. Hell, just say please.
Jesse: Please?
I laugh out loud.
Me: You’re with Franco. If I send you a pic right now, he’ll see it.
Jesse: You think I’d let that tool see it? Not a chance! I’d guard it with my life.
Am I really considering doing this?
God, I’m pathetic.
I can’t send him a full nude, though—I need to leave him something to want. I can’t give it all away all at once.
An idea strikes me, and I race upstairs to my bedroom. In the closet of my bedroom is a single box of things from my life with Nicholas that I didn’t throw away—mostly photos from our wedding, simply because there are some great, nostalgic photos of me with my parents, and me with Audra. Also in the box are the envelopes I sent the invitations in, and the large, pink, heart-shaped stickers I used to seal the envelopes. I’d bought a huge quantity of them simply because it was cheaper, and never threw the extras away because they’re pretty, and I’ve actually used the stickers for various things in the past.
