Page 54 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“No need to apologize, Imogen—I just don’t want you to think I didn’t want—”
I lean close and speak over him, keeping my voice low. “I have absolutely zero doubts about that, Jesse.”
“You seemed pretty pissed. I was worried you’d still be mad.”
“And I was worried I’d ruined things with my drunken idiocy. But to answer your question, the instant I woke up, my first thought was ‘oh shit, I’m hungover,’ and my second thought was, ‘oh shit, I really messed up with Jesse.’”
“So you understand why I stopped us?” he asks, his hands engulfing mine.
“I’m glad you did what you did, Jesse. I’m grateful. I was so horny I couldn’t stand it, and I wanted you so bad, and I just wasn’t thinking straight. After you left I stood up, and that’s when I discovered exactly how drunk I was.”
He breathes out sharply through his nostrils, jaw flexing. “Not taking you when you were offering yourself up to me like a gift-wrapped present was, very literally, the second hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Second hardest?”
He nods. “The first hardest is connected to that situation I don’t like talking about. It’s a major downer, and I’m a lot more interested in this conversation.”
“Then forget I asked.” I gaze up at him through my eyelashes, shifting my weight forward and squeezing my tits together with my arms as I lean toward him. “The only real difference between last night and tonight is that tonight I’m totally sober.”
“In that case, I just have two questions for you. One, do you work in the morning?”
I shake my head. “No. Well, not early, at least. I go in at eleven.”
“Good, because that leads me to my second question.” His thumb rubs circles against the back of my hand, and his eyes flick between my eyes and my cleavage. “You want to get out of here?”
Chapter 12
Jesse doesn’t even bother saying goodbye or making excuses to his friends—the moment I whisper, “Yes,” he takes me by the hand and hauls me faster than my heels will safely allow out of the bar to his truck. My initial impression was that we’d get in our separate cars and drive back to my house, since that’s where we’ve always spent time together. But no. He’s got other ideas.
I follow behind him across the parking lot, clinging to his hand, until we reach the lineup of trucks—and my Camry. I let go of his hand and dig in my clutch for my purse, but Jesse puts his hand at the small of my back and ushers me forward, between his truck and my car. Only, I’m on the wrong side of my car.
“Um, Jesse? The steering wheel is on the other side of my car,” I point out.
His eyes dark and smoldering, he just smirks. “I know. But you’re not driving.”
“I’m not?”
He shakes his head, digging his keys from his pocket and blipping the locks open. “Nope. I’m kidnapping you.”
“Oh. I—oh.” He steps around the hood, leans past me, and opens the passenger door of his truck. He’s so close I can smell him, feel his heat. “Where are we going?”
He presses his lips to my ear. “My house.”
“Oh. Okay,” I whisper, shaking all over with excitement and need and nerves. “Why?”
“Because I live outside town, on a big chunk of land, with no neighbors.”
“Okay…?” I ask, prompting for the reasoning behind this seeming non sequitur.
He nips my earlobe between his teeth, and then whispers in my ear. “That way, when I make you scream so loud the chandeliers rattle, there’ll be no one around to hear.”
My breath leaves me in a sudden, whimpering whoosh. “Oh god, Jesse. You know what it does to me when you talk like that?”
He presses up behind me, his mouth still against my ear. “No, Imogen. What’s it do to you?”
“It makes me wet.” I whisper this, and I can’t quite believe it’s me saying it, but the thrill racing through my blood tells me it’s the right thing to say. And also, it’s true. So, so true.
He growls, and his hand cups my hip. His teeth sink into my earlobe again, so I feel his growl as well as hear it. His body behind me, the door to my left, I’m sheltered between his truck and him, in a hot tense bubble of sexuality. I smell the leather of his seats, the distinct smell of a particular person’s lived-in vehicle. Feel his chest against my back. His hips against my buttocks. His erection against my tailbone. His breath on my ear. His growl vibrating throughout me.
And his hand, powerfully cupping my hipbone. Slowly, deliberately, giving me time to stop him, his hand travels down to my thigh, to the hem of my dress. I press my hands against the edge of the seat, gripping the pebbled leather hard. I stop breathing as his hand slides between my thighs and slowly floats upward, under my dress.
