Page 82 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
He pulls me onto his lap. “Imogen—it was never no-strings with us.” He sighs. “That’s what I was trying to figure out how to say, but I couldn’t because I was dealing with leftovers from automatically avoiding anything real. But it can’t be anything except real with you. It already is more. So much more.”
“Really?” I hate how the sniffle escapes me, as I say that.
He taps my nose. “Really really.” He does this in a Shrek voice that’s so bad it’s good.
I laugh. “Don’t make fun of me. I can’t help being a little emotional.”
He just smiles at me. “I’m not making fun.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. “Remember what I said about you being adorably erotic? You’re also erotically adorable.”
I feel something growing under me, and I boggle at him. “Already?”
He grins, a hot, eager smirk. “Baby, you have no idea.” He stands up, lifting me to my feet. “How about you sit on that counter and talk to me while I work? I’ve only got a few more things left to do in here, and then what say you and me head to your place? You haven’t been by yet, have you?”
“No,” I admit. “I was avoiding you, so I went to Audra’s.”
He juts his chin at the counter. “Sit. Talk to me about ways I can get you to apologize like that again.”
I laugh as I hop up on the counter. “Hey, if you’re that…generous…every time we have sex, I’ll feel like I need to apologize just to make the number of orgasms between us equal. So you’d end up getting apologized to a lot.”
He smolders at me as he finishes caulking around the tub. “I was in a hurry that night. I was fucking desperate to have you, so I kind of rushed it a little. Usually I’d make sure you had at least four or five orgasms before we started having sex.”
“Oh,” I squeak, breathless, and then find my own heat bubbling up into my gaze. “If that’s the case, you’ll be getting a whole lot of me stopping by with lunch.”
He grins. “I could live with that arrangement.”
Two hours and a lot of innuendos later, we’re at my house. Audra and Franco disappeared, apparently, and she was my ride, but we’re in Jesse’s truck. Which is, honestly, becoming one of my favorite places.
We’re at my door, and he’s hesitating. “I, um. Got bored waiting for you,” he says, by way of explanation. “So…yeah.”
I unlock the door and push in; there’s nothing different in the foyer or living room, which means it’s in the kitchen.
I stop in the doorway, gaping. He replaced all my counters with butcher blocks stained a deep, rich, dark brown, and painted my cabinets white, took off the doors and replaced them with glass, and ripped up the shitty old laminate and replaced it with sleek gray slate.
I feel my eyes sting. “Jesse.”
He scuffs a toe against the floor. “The guys helped.”
“Why, when I was so rude to you?”
“Both of us messed that up, and I wanted to do this. I wanted to—I had to…” He sighs. “I like doing things for you. I like making you happy. It’s obvious no one has ever really taken care of you before, and I feel good doing things for you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “It’s perfect. It’s amazing, it’s…”
I look at it all again, over his shoulder. My kitchen is unrecognizable from what it looked like before I met him.
“You love it?” he asks, searching me with his eyes.
“So much.” I grin at him, jumping up and wrapping my legs around his waist. “Take me upstairs so I can say thank you.”
He growls eagerly. “You could thank me right here, up against this counter.”
I slide down off of him, grinning harder. “Okay,” I whisper.
I peel off my shirt, kick off my jeans, make quick work of bra and underwear, and before he can even blink three times, I’m naked. I turn away from him, sliding my hands across the smooth, cool surface of the counter. Lean over it, wiggling my butt at him.
He’s just staring at me.
I writhe, undulating my ass at him. “Jesse?”
He shakes his head, as if to clear it of hypnotism. “Sorry, I just—you’re so fucking sexy, sometimes I just…” he trails off. “I don’t know how to say it.”
“Don’t tell me, then,” I murmur, reaching between my legs. “Show me.”
He growls again, reaching for me. “God, I love the way you think.” He frowns. “I don’t have any protection with me. I don’t carry it in my wallet like I used to.”
I smirk at him. “Purse.” I point at my purse on the counter. “I bought some, just in case.”
“Did I mention that I love the way you think?” he says, digging them out of my purse.
In seconds, he’s behind me, reaching for me. I bend over the counter, and he fills me, his hands carving over me, showing me how beautiful he finds me with his touch, with his lips stuttering over me as he moves, as we move together. And with his words; he gasps, as we find completion together: “So perfect, Imogen—you’re—god, you’re so perfect.”
