Page 71 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
I kick my feet free of the blankets and leave the bed. I don’t feel sexy or sensual or powerful anymore, but somehow, neither do I feel self-conscious in my nakedness. I wait for a response, but, uncharacteristically, I get nothing from him.
I’m baffled, now. I stare at him, trying to figure this moment out. He’s not the single-word, grunty, macho, no-reply kind of guy. I’ve known those, and dislike it intensely. You know what’s sexy? A guy who can communicate. That’s what I like about Jesse, what has me falling for him—
Oh.
Oh shit.
Oh no.
I breathe through my panic. I’m not falling for him. I’m not. I can’t be.
I make for the bedroom door, naked, panicking inside, still faking a confident casualness that’s less and less believable by the second. I need to get away from him before I lose the ability to fake it anymore. I’m a terrible actress—I don’t fake orgasms, and I don’t fake emotions. This feels illicit, yucky, trying to make him feel like I’m unaffected when everything inside is a mess.
I want to cling to him—I want to beg for more of him. Give me more orgasms. Let him taste me. Take me until I’m ragged with exhaustion.
But I can’t have that, it seems.
That’s not what this is.
He got what he wanted, and so did I.
I don’t let myself run, as I head for the stairs. I force myself to not hurry, to act like everything is hunky-dory fantastic fabulous, like I’m ready to go, like I got what I wanted and I’m as done as he is.
I feel him following me, feel his eyes on me, and feel the weight of unspoken words between us.
I ignore it.
I dress in the kitchen, facing away from him—step into my thong, tug it into place; hook my bra in front and spin it around, shrug into the straps, tuck the cups into place, tighten the straps a hint; step into the dress, zip it, and find my purse.
Where are my heels? I had them on—how long? I don’t remember. Did I have them on during sex? Maybe. I think I had them on for part of it, and then kicked them off at some point. I don’t know where they are and I don’t care. I just need to get out of here.
“Imogen,” Jesse says, sounding wildly uncharacteristically hesitant. “I’m not—I don’t want you to think—”
“I have to go,” I say, going for breezy and fine. “Can you drop me off? If not, I can call a cab.”
“I’ll take you,” he murmurs. “Cab would take an hour to get out here.”
I wonder what we could do with that hour? I think it, but I don’t say it. We’re past that, I think.
Why does that hurt? The loss of the witty, clever, lascivious banter hurts.
He finds his jeans on the kitchen floor and shoves his legs into them one after the other, tugs them up, tucks his junk into them and carefully zips them up. His shirt is by the front door, but he ignores it, finding instead a faded black pullover Blackhawks hoodie hanging from a hook by the front door. He tugs it on and nudges open the front door. He’s out onto the porch before he stops abruptly.
He snorts in frustration. “Keys. Need keys.”
It should be amusing to see Jesse this obviously flustered, but it’s not—it hurts. It’s confusing. And I don’t want to ask what’s wrong because I don’t want to know the answer. I wait on the porch while he snags his keys, phone, and wallet, and then we both climb his truck.
The drive back to Billy Bar is long and quiet.
He’s deep in thought. He has his window open, his left wrist draped over the wheel, right elbow on the console between us, fist clenched, his thumb repeatedly and obsessively switching from finger to finger, cracking the knuckles.
I try to speak a dozen times, but can’t figure what to say that won’t open a can of worms I know I can’t handle.
I just need to go home and be alone. Maybe ice my vagina, because holy shit, am I going to be sore—I’ll savor the soreness, and I’ll hoard the memory of sex with Jesse.
Back in the parking lot of Billy Bar, he pulls to a stop next to my little POS Camry, slamming the shifter into park. I don’t get out right away, hoping he’ll say something. Hoping, deep down, that he’ll say or do something to salvage this situation.
He doesn’t, and I can’t hold back a sigh.
I shove open the door and unbuckle. “Thanks for the ride,” I say. And then, in one last attempt, I smirk at him. “And for driving me back to my car.”
His smile is slow and unsure. “Imogen, listen—”
I hold up my hand. “Jesse, don’t. I’ll ask you no questions, you tell me no lies.”
