Page 58 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“It’s really beautiful,” I say.
He digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his photographs until he finds a set. “Scroll to the right. The first few are from when I first bought it.”
Standing in his gorgeous kitchen, I swipe through the photographs, and I’m truly amazed. I knew Jesse was skilled, but what he’s done here is artistry. The before photographs show a house that was probably seconds from being condemned. The roof was falling in, the front porch was sagging, and the siding was missing in places. More photos showed the inside, which was in even worse shape. Walls were missing chunks, the ceilings were bulging and sagging with water damage, there was old sheet-covered furniture and garbage and animal nests and inches of dust.
“I ripped the entire roof off, and tore out every wall that wasn’t load bearing. The real saving grace here is that the original hardwood floors had all been covered at some point by this god-awful shag carpeting, so they’d been really well preserved pretty much everywhere. The floors and the exterior walls are all that’s original; everything else has been totally rebuilt. All the wiring, all the plumbing, lighting, everything we did from scratch.”
“A real labor of love, huh?” I ask, handing him his phone back.
“Yeah, sure was.” He waves a hand at the kitchen. “So, want a tour?”
I gaze up at him. “Yeah, sure.” I lick my lips and go for the truth. “As long as the tour ends in your bedroom.”
His smile is predatory. “Who says we need a bed for what I have in mind?”
“What—what do you have in mind?”
He just smirks. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
God, I hope so. Now that we’ve backed away from the heat of the moment, my nerves are jangling on high alert. Need hasn’t abated, and neither has my desire for him, but knowing what’s happening, where this is going—the anticipation is making me vibrate with anxiety and doubt and self-consciousness, on top of the need and desire.
When my hormones are in control, I have no thoughts beyond getting what I want and fulfilling my desires, but now that we’re out of the moment, my brain is starting up again and questions are floating up from deep in the pool of my uncertainty and self-doubt.
What if, when I’m finally naked, I don’t look as good as he thinks I will? What if my butt is too big? What if the wrinkles and dimples on my ass turn him off? What if the fact that my belly isn’t taut and firm and toned—like, say, Audra’s—is a turnoff? What if I’m not as wild and adventurous in bed as he wants me to be? What if he wants things I’m not comfortable with? What if sex with him is bad? What if it’s incredible and I fall for him even harder than I can already feel myself falling?
He’s an avowed hound dog, a lifelong bachelor with no intention or desire to jump into anything deep or committed, and I’m not sure I’m capable of a casual, physical relationship. In a lot of ways, that’s exactly what I want—no-strings sex, fun and free and physically fulfilling, but without all the messy emotions that come along with being involved with someone. That sounds easy and simple and fun, and after my god-awful messy failure of a marriage and the ugly divorce being able to just have good sex and not put my heart at risk sounds kind of nice.
But I know myself. I know how my emotions work, and they operate on a hair trigger.
Jesse is eyeing me. “Where’d you go just now?”
I shake my head, clueless as to how to communicate any of this to him, let alone whether it’d be smart to do so.
What happens, happens—okay, Audra, I’ll try things your way.
“Hey, there’s no pressure, here, okay?” Jesse says, perhaps correctly assessing me.
He tosses his keys onto the counter beside the stove, digs his wallet and phone out of his pocket and tosses them down along with his keys, then leans back against the counter and unties his boots, toes them off and kicks them across the room to land willy-nilly by the back door. His socks join them, and then he turns back to me.
“We could skip the tour for now,” he says, moving closer.
“We could,” I agree, placing my palms flat on his chest.
“I’m a lot more interested in a tour of you.” He lets his gaze roam my body yet again, desire crackling in his eyes—it’s that look that gets me, every time. That look which says he wants me, that he can’t get enough of even just seeing me, fully clothed or otherwise.
“You’ve gotten a pretty good tour already,” I say, tracing the outline of his pec over his T-shirt.
“Nah, I’m gonna need the full, detailed, comprehensive tour.” He spans my waist with both hands. “An in-depth tour.”
