Page 61 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
The scarlet fabric pools on the floor around my feet, and my heart slams in my chest—I haven’t stood in nothing but undergarments in front of any man for so long—and especially not one like Jesse. It’s a thrill, and utterly terrifying. I know he finds me attractive—I don’t doubt that. It’s my own fears and insecurities at play, and I argue them, combat them, try to hold on to the desire and the need and the wild abandon, cling to the ever-fleeting confidence to stand as I am and let Jesse look without flinching from his gaze.
And indeed, he releases me and steps back three paces.
It requires an effort of will—my nerves crashing and fear slamming in my blood and in my gut, doubts preying on me—to stand tall, shoulders back, head up, as he gazes at me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Is that what you were wearing when you flashed me as I was backing out the other day?
I nod. “Yes.”
He rakes his hand through his hair. “Perfect.”
I offer a hesitant, shy smile. “Better be careful, Jesse. You keep saying that, I might just start believing it.” I indicate his body with a sweep of my finger. “You’re pretty damn perfect yourself, you know.”
He steps toward me in a predatory swagger, mouth curling up in a hot grin. “Good. Then I’ll say it every time I look at you until you do. Because you are. You’re perfect.” His hands slide over the small of my back, trace the underside of my bra strap, and follow the circle of my thong’s waistband. “But you’d be even more perfect if we took these off.”
Oh god, oh god. I swallow hard, fighting desperately for the confidence to let him strip me naked, right here, in the brightly lit kitchen, with open windows all around.
The last several times I was naked with a man, the lights were off, the blinds were closed, and the entire process lasted less than five minutes from start to finish, leaving me vulnerable and frustrated and alone as he rolled over and went to sleep. Last several times? Try every time for several years. I don’t remember the last time I stood confident in my nudity for a man.
He senses something. “You okay?”
I nod, but have to blink and swallow and work past the lump of fear and doubt. “Just…nervous.”
He pulls me against him, his palms on my back. “Don’t lie to me, Imogen.”
“Fine. I’m terrified.” I meet his gaze, my eyes stinging. “I want this—I want you. I want everything—that hasn’t changed in the slightest. I want it all more than ever. But…”
“What do you need?” he asks.
“Can we go to your room? And maybe…turn the lights off?”
He frowns. “Imogen…Jesus. That bastard really did a number on you, didn’t he?” He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you hide. I’m not letting you give doubt and fear the win.”
“Easier said than done. When things are hot and heavy and I don’t have time to think, I’m fine,” I tell him, allowing brutal honesty to emerge. “And I have moments where I feel bold and beautiful and even sexy. But then other times, I just…I doubt myself. I don’t doubt that you’re attracted to me, or even that you think I’m perfect, somehow. It’s not you I doubt, it’s me. It’s hard to know who I am, now. After everything that’s happened, I’m not the woman I was. I’m someone else, and I don’t know who that is. I want to be someone bold and strong, I want to be confident and I want to take what I want. But it’s hard. I’m trying, but it’s so hard. And you’re so effortlessly cool and handsome and confident and strong, and you say such incredible things, and the way you touch me is magical. And I just…it’s all so mixed up.”
He cups my face and tilts it up. “Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Show me the photo you sent me.”
My purse is on the counter beside his phone, keys, and wallet—I don’t even remember bringing it in or putting it down, but there it is. I get my phone and bring up the photo. On either side of it in the photo feed are some of the other photos I took that I didn’t delete and didn’t send.
I hand him the phone. “You can swipe both ways. There are a couple others I didn’t send you. They’re unedited and not super great, but—”
He touches my lips with a finger to shut me up, and I’m thankful, because I’m nervous letting him see those, and I would have kept babbling. He swipes through the photos, taking time to carefully scrutinize each one. He shows me the screen: it’s one of the ones I didn’t send, but nearly did. I’m on my back, left arm curled under and around my breasts to squeeze them together and prop them up, with the phone held up and out to the side to capture almost all of my body—my legs are crossed at the thighs and my hips are twisted away to shield my core from the camera. The only reason I didn’t send that one was because the angle of my turned-aside thigh reveals an unflattering amount of stretch marks and cellulite.
