Page 57 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Imogen,” Jesse groans, “dammit, woman.”
“What? Is this not helping?” I know damn well it’s not. He wants my hands around him as much if not more than I want it, just like I want his fingers inside me as much if not more than he wants them there.
“Define helping.”
“I could help all the way if you want.” I glance at him, watching for his reaction.
He tilts his head back, closes his eyes briefly, and lets out a long, tortured growl. “Fuuuuuuck. You know how crazy it makes me when you suggest stuff like that?”
“How crazy?”
“Crazy enough that I’m tempted to tell to you to do your worst. Or your best, depending how you look at it.”
Desire to see more him, touch more of him races through me, controls me, and I take his words as either a dare or permission. I do what I wanted to do moments ago—I delve my hand into his underwear and take hold of him.
My breath fails, and my heart stutters—he’s huge. Hot and hard in my hand, spreading my fingers apart. Soft, smooth. Ripples, and veins, and the smooth roundness of the tip under my thumb, moisture leaking. He groans and his hips shift forward, and I reach over the console with my other hand to tug the underwear away so I can see better. I let him go and just look at him—a massive thick shaft of pink flesh, the head bobbing against his belly with his breathing and the bump and sway of the truck.
He makes a turn off the highway onto a narrow gravel road that winds down a hill and through a copse of trees, up another hill, and then angles across a wide field of tall grass waving in the breeze. In the distance, a house sits on a hill surrounded by rolling green hills, a ring of trees in the distance.
“That’s my place up ahead,” Jesse murmurs.
I have him in my hand again, hot and throbbing. I stroke, once, slowly, downward, and he growls in his chest, hips flexing, and then his hand wrenches mine away.
“Not yet. You keep touching me like that, I won’t last half a second. I want you too bad.”
I almost whimper at the loss of him in my hand—it’s almost as maddening as feeling his finger inside me for a single delving moment. More—I want more. So much more.
Everything.
He’s hauling ass now that he’s on his own property; we jolt down a hill and over a rut, and then he’s skidding to a stop in the circular dirt driveway in front of his home. It’s a beautiful white two-story Victorian farmhouse, with a wraparound stretching around the entire home, twin dormers on the roof; the shutters are painted a deep scarlet, and the front door is red as well. An acre or so of grass around the home itself is mown, fertilized, and watered, but the rest beyond it is wild and untamed.
Dust swirls in the moonlight and in the twin beams of the headlights, and then he’s shutting the engine off and opening his door. He roughly refastens his jeans and hops out, circles to my side before I’m even unbuckled. My door flies open, and he hauls me out, carries me in his arms up the stairs to his porch, and sets me down to fit his key into the lock. I take the time, while he’s unlocking the door, to fix my dress. He fumbles a moment or two, and then with an impatient shove, the door swings open and we step in.
The interior is obscured in shadows and slices of moonlight at first, and then he flicks a few switches just inside the front door, illuminating the home, revealing a beautiful open-plan main floor with acres of polished hardwood, gleaming stone countertops, stainless steel appliances, open face cabinets, a deep leather couch, seascape and landscape artwork on the walls. I move around the main level, which includes the living room, dining room, kitchen, a small walk-in pantry, and a half bathroom. There’s a lovely rocking chair in the living room, handmade from the looks of it, and a matching side table. The dining room table and matching chairs all have a similar look as the rocking chair and side table, making me think all three pieces were made by the same person or company.
Jesse sees me looking at the rocking chair. “All the wooden furniture in here was made by Franco. He’s a master finishing carpenter, and he handcrafts furniture on the side. The chair, the side table, and the dining room set were his housewarming gift to me when I finished renovating this place.”
I glance around. “You renovated this yourself?”
Jesse snorts. “No—I, a professional builder, hired someone else.” He laughs. “Of course I did. Took me, like, two years to do the whole thing, but I wasn’t in a hurry. Obviously the guys helped. We’d finish work on Friday evening, come out here, and work on a bit here and there. This is where I spent pretty much every weekend for two years.”
