Page 68 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“One more, Imogen,” he snarls. “Give me one more.”
“God—Jesse, I—oh god,” I breathe. “I need yours.”
“I’ll give it to you—as soon as you give me one more.” His strong, work-roughened hands cup my inner thighs, pressing my legs farther apart, until he’s gripping me at the creases where thighs meet core, and his thumbs spread my stretched, tender hood further open, and then the wide pad of his thumb finds my hypersensitive center and circles, as if I needed further stimulation to reach the edge. “Now, Imogen—come for me, right now.”
He barks the command, and I obey, yet again.
I thrash under him, writhe in his hands and grind against his thrusting erection. I take him deep, and ache with the fullness of him, and scream with the wrenching, spasmodic fury of my third orgasm.
He drives into me through wave after wave of climax, and I’m sobbing yet again.
And once more, I realize he’s not done with me yet.
He pulls out of me entirely, and kneels over me. “Hands and knees, Imogen.”
“Wh-what?” I squeak.
“Remember what I said, earlier? I want you on your hands and knees in my bed.”
I need him. I need his orgasm. I need his release. I need it.
So, despite being shaky and weak and breathless from three earth-shaking orgasms, I roll to my belly and push up on my hands and knees. I’ve never in my life felt so self-conscious as I do in this moment, my big flabby ass in the air and spread out in front of him. My chest tightens, and my throat closes, and I’m close to losing the thread of arousal, so terrified am I that seeing me like this will turn him off.
Nicholas never wanted me like this.
As if the thought of my ex had been an audible thing, Jesse snarls. “Quit that shit, Imogen.”
“Wha—? What?” I breathe.
“I can fucking feel you shutting down right now.”
“I don’t feel sexy like this,” I admit, the words barely audible.
He actually laughs—he has the gall to laugh. “Imogen, Jesus. How the hell do you not know how goddamned perfect you are?”
I can only shake my head, trying not to cry. I twist to look at him over my shoulder. He meets my eyes, and there is nothing in his expression but pure, unfiltered need. God, he’s gorgeous: Kneeling behind me, erection thick and upright and enormous and perfect, wet from me, his muscles shifting and powerful, his tanned skin slick and beaded with sweat from making me come so hard, his hair as untamed as the man himself, a jet-black mess of thick locks around his eyes and jaw. He’s staring at me, his eyes devouring me. I cannot deny the arousal in his gaze, and he’s looking at me, like this, in a position I find…not demeaning, not humiliating…I’m just self-conscious and unsure like this. But the look on his face as he kneels behind me is undeniable.
As is the reverence in his hands as he reaches out to palm my buttocks. “So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes sliding to mine. “How do you not understand that you’re perfect? You’re exquisite, Imogen.”
I swallow, and breathe. “Just, like this, I feel like—”
He caresses the generous curve of my ass. “You think this is too big? Is that what you’re so self-conscious about?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He presses his hips forward, rubbing his arousal against the left cheek. “What does this feel like, to you?” he says, taking himself in hand, rubbing himself against the other side now. “Does this feel like I’m turned off?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“What’s it feel like, Imogen?” He drags the head against my seam. “Don’t you feel how turned on I am?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “I feel it.”
“I’m so hard it hurts,” he snarls. “I’ve never been so fucking turned on my life.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jesse,” I whisper.
He drags himself downward between the cheeks of my ass, a thick hard ridge between them, and then, using his fingers to find my entrance, notches himself inside me. “Does this feel like a lie?”
God, he feels bigger and harder than ever. “No…” I breathe, on a whimper.
He slides in, slowly. “You feel how hard I am?” he demands, his hands palming my ass.
“I feel it.”
“I’m not gonna last ten seconds like this, Imogen,” he growls. “So get ready.”
“Jesse, god…” I gasp, feeling him push into me. “I’m ready.”
“Are you?” he murmurs. “I’m not sure you are.”
“I feel you, Jesse. You’re so big, so hard.”
He pulls back, and drives in, so, so, so slowly. As if savoring every millimeter of slick sliding wetness of me. “Because of you. Because seeing you like this, on your knees for me, seeing this ass of yours—yes, this big, gorgeous, juicy perfect ass—” he caresses the round weight of me as he speaks, a tender, reverent, worshipful touch, “—all spread out just for me, getting to take you like this, feeling you like this…it’s fucking heaven, Imogen.”
