Page 49 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
I grind against him, writhing my hips, telling him silently what I want and how much I want it.
Except, instead of taking the hint, he breaks the kiss, panting.
I frown down at him, licking the taste of him off my lips. “Wha—why did you stop?”
He rests his head against my chest, his forehead just beneath my chin. “We’ve had a lot of wine, Imogen.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I’m no lightweight, but I’m feeling it,” he says, his voice heavy and slow. “And I know you are, too.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit, my chest tight with foreboding. “So what, though? If we’re both in the same place and we both want this, what’s the problem?”
He captures my wrists in one hand, holds them against his chest, and uses his other hand to brush a tendril of my hair away from my eyes. “If we’d already slept together, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. Half-drunk sex can be awesome, but—I don’t want our first time together to be half-drunk.”
“Why not?” I whisper, rejection stinging hard.
“Because I want you to go into it totally sober, totally in control, absolutely feeling and knowing everything.” He tries to meet my eyes, but I won’t let him.
“I appreciate you trying to do the honorable thing here, Jess, but I know what I want, and I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m doing.” Goddammit, I hate how my voice quavers.
“Imogen—please don’t think this is easy for me. I want you more than I can say—”
“So don’t tell me—show me. Please,” I say, my voice breaking into a whisper on the last word.
“God, I fucking want to. But you’re only just out of a ten-year marriage, Imogen. You’ve been through a lot, and I just cannot and will not let you jump into something half-drunk. I will not be something you regret rushing into.”
“I’m not rushing, I just—”
He cups my face in one hand. “Imogen, please understand. This is honestly the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but I know it’s the right thing.”
My raging hormones don’t agree. I rub my core against him. “Jesse, again—I appreciate what you’re doing, and I really respect you taking the honorable route, here, but…” I choke on my words. “But I need this. You don’t understand.”
He snarls wordlessly when I rub against him, and all but throws me off of him onto the couch, shooting to his feet and pacing away, fists clenching and releasing. “Fuck, Imogen. I can tell exactly how much you need this, and I’m right there with you. But I won’t start it with you when we’re both like this.” He digs in his pocket and tosses his keys on the coffee table. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not even in any condition to drive home. It wouldn’t be the way it’s supposed to be, if we go there now. It won’t be what I want it to be, for you and for myself.”
“Dammit,” I hiss. “Fine. Whatever. Go ahead and do the right thing, then, Sir Galahad.”
“Imogen, I’m just—”
I shake my head, refusing to cry about this in front of him—it’s a losing battle right now, and I’m clamping down hard on the tears, on the lump in my throat. “Don’t. Just…go.”
He scrapes his hand through his hair again, growling. He glances at me, mouth opening as if to say something, but then closes it again and he stomps angrily for the door. I want to stop him, but I don’t.
I want to pin him against the door and kiss him and jump into his arms and beg him to make love to me, but I don’t.
I’ve already embarrassed myself enough, throwing myself at him, begging, pleading, and now crying. So no, I won’t go that last step. I sit on the couch, barely stifling the tears, as he tromps down the steps he built, across the lawn, and vanishes into the midnight shadows of my neighborhood, on foot.
I wait until I’m sure he’s gone, and then I rise to my feet.
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I have to sit back down and try to stand up again, more slowly and carefully this time. I go up the stairs, holding the rail, pulling myself up. The stairs waver and multiply, and then somehow I’m in my room, falling into my bed.
I feel warm wetness on my cheeks, staining the pillow even as I drift and spin.
I fucked it all up.
Threw myself at him, but got too drunk and he rejected me.
He’ll never want me now.
Just like Nicholas.
I fall asleep in a cold wet spot made by my own tears.
Chapter 11
I wake up with a pounding head, my mouth dry as a desert, sun blazing into my room, making me sweat like a pig. My sheets are tangled and soaked in sweat. I’m still in my romper; at some point in the night I tried to take off my bra, apparently, but only partially succeeded—the cups are pushed up over my breasts, one arm is pulled out of the strap, but it’s still hooked around my back.
