Page 55 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Dirty talk makes you wet?” he murmurs. “Here?”
I shift my feet farther apart and twist my head so my lips graze his cheek, just above his beard line. “It does when it’s you talking that way to me.”
“How wet?” he asks, his fingers tracing a V around the edges of my underwear over my core.
“I don’t know,” I say, swallowing doubt and embracing need, “you’d have to find out for yourself.”
He groans, whether from need or from relief, I don’t know. It’s his only response, though, other than to tease a light touch of his fingertip over the lace covering my core. I huff a breath out, head hanging. His touch has the front of my dress riding up, baring most of my thighs, and his hand covers my core. It’s so erotic, watching his hand steal slowly upward from my core to the waistband of my thong, and then watching his fingers slip under the elastic. More erotic yet to watch his hand fill the red lace as his palm covers me, and then his fingertip is grazing over my opening, and I can’t breathe in but my lungs are empty, and my blood is singing. A whine escapes me as he drags his finger up the seam of my core yet again, still not delving in. Just teasing me, learning the shape of me.
I want to beg him to plunge his finger inside me, to touch me, to make me scream like he promised. Instead, I inhale a moan, and wait. He doesn’t disappoint. This time, when his finger grazes downward, it slips between the lips ever so slightly, and I bite my lip. Upward, and a little deeper, and now I’m biting my lip so hard it hurts.
“Jesse…” I whisper, my face still turned to his, my lips brushing his cheek.
He tilts my chin so our mouths meet, and as his tongue finds mine; he delves into me, slipping a digit into my pulsing wet heat. I moan loudly through the kiss at the delicious intrusion. I whimper and gasp as he draws his finger out, only just barely brushing me where I’m most sensitive.
I smell my own essence, and open my eyes to see him pop his finger into his mouth with a groan.
“So wet, and sweet as sugar.”
“Oh god, Jesse.” I’m having trouble formulating thoughts beyond animal, primal instinct. “I want—I need…”
“What, Imogen?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against my back. “What do you want—what do you need?”
“Everything.” It’s the only possible answer.
“Then let’s get going,” he answers, and slides a hand under my thighs and an arm around my waist and lifts me up into his truck, gently depositing me on the seat. He reaches across to buckle me in, taking extra effort to make sure the seat belt strap rests snugly between my breasts. I laugh at this, because I’m fully aware he did it more for his own visual enjoyment than for my safety.
“What?” he says, his tone protesting his innocence.
“I am familiar with the notion of strapboob, Jesse.”
He laughs with me as he climbs behind the steering wheel. “I just wanted to make sure you were properly buckled in.”
He navigates his way out of the parking lot and heads out of town. The inside of his truck is silent except for the slight buffeting of wind from the windows being cracked a few inches. I see his gaze occasionally shift over to me, slide up and down my body, and then flick back to the road.
So, feeling daring and full of my own sensuality, I decide to play a little game of chicken. I gather the hem of my dress in my fingers while he’s watching the road, lifting up slightly and surreptitiously tugging the dress up higher, baring more of my thighs. The next time he glances back at me, his eyes linger longer, until he has to visibly force himself to return his attention to the road.
When he checks his blind spot over his left shoulder to change lanes, I quickly reach up and tug the already low neckline of my dress down, and the cups of my bra with it, so all of my breasts except my nipples and areolae are bared.
And, again, his gaze steals over to me, and lingers, sweeps up and down and back up, until he yet has to force himself to look back at the road.
I allow a brief, secret smile at the effect my game is having.
I wait until he glances out his window to watch a particularly fancy sports car go past, and I tug the hemline of my dress higher yet, several inches this time; it’s high enough now that if I spread my thighs open a bit—like so—he’ll be able to see hints of the lace of my thong.
