Page 21 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“Well…I never had dessert,” he murmurs, his eyes openly roaming my cleavage. “And I have a hell of a sweet tooth.”
A long, long silence.
“Franco…” I whisper.
He turns into my condo complex. “Yes, Audra?”
“This isn’t how this is supposed to go.”
“No? What were you expecting?” He turns into the lot behind my building and parks in one of the guest spaces. “Like you said, we both know what this game is.”
“This wasn’t supposed to be a continuation of the game.” I unbuckle and open the door, but don’t exit yet.
He huffs a laugh, grinning at me. “Oh no? Then I’m not sure what you were thinking, agreeing to go out with me…and letting me pick you up. And pay for dinner. And take you home. And flirting with me.”
“I obviously wasn’t thinking.”
He shuts off his truck and unbuckles. “No, obviously not.”
I watch him, panicking a little. “What—what are you doing? Where are you going?”
“Walking you up.” He smirks. “It’s the gentlemanly thing to do… on a date.”
“Oh.” I don’t question this until we’re at the elevator and he’s riding up to my floor with me. “Wait. I wasn’t planning on telling you which unit I live in.”
He just laughs. “I’m really throwing you off your game, aren’t I?”
“Yes, damn you. This whole thing is fucking weird.”
I precede him off the elevator and pause outside my door. “Just so you know, I’m normally very, very protective of my home. I almost never bring anyone up here.”
“Actually, I totally get that. I’m the same way about my house.” He laughs, somewhat ruefully. “I guess I don’t like mixing pleasure with too many details about my personal life.”
I’m standing with my back to my door, and I’m staring up at him, and I understand what he’s saying all too well. “Me either. When you mix personal with pleasure, things get messy.”
“And I’m a neat freak and a perfectionist, so having a messy personal life gives me an anxiety attack.” He braces a palm against the door over my shoulder, his hard body overwhelming all of my senses, his eyes piercing mine. “I like to keep things neat, simple, and compartmentalized.”
“One and done, huh?” I breathe, and watch, annoyed, as my fingers dance across his chest and wander the breadth of his shoulders.
He shakes his head. “No, as a matter of fact. I have a system, and a theory to go with it.”
“And what is your system?” I ask.
He gazes down at me, one fingertip trailing up the outside of my bicep, sending shivers down my spine and through my core. “I have a four-fuck-maximum rule.”
I laugh, a little too breathily for my own comfort. “I’m pretty sure we broke that last night, Franco.”
He shakes his head. “No, you’re misunderstanding. Not four individual acts of coitus, but four separate sexual encounters. Meaning, last night was one.” He runs his finger up my arm, across my shoulder, over my clavicle and breastbone, and down the valley of my cleavage. “Tonight will be two.” He tugs the edge of my top aside to bare the crimson of my bra. “I’ll take you to my place tomorrow and fuck you up against my workbench, and that will be three. I’ll drive us out to my favorite fishing spot and fuck you in the bed of my truck under the stars, and that will be four. And then…that’s it. We go our separate ways.”
I keep my breathing steady as he pushes the other side of my top away, baring more of my bra. “I see. And what’s the theory that goes with this four-fuck-maximum rule of yours?”
A door down the hall opens, and we both look up, startled; I think we’d both forgotten we weren’t alone in this hallway, that it’s a public space. I twist away from him, dig my keys out of my purse, and unlock my door. I didn’t necessarily mean for him to come in with me, but he did, and I didn’t stop him, and then, somehow, my door is closed and my purse is on the floor at my feet and my back is to the door again, and he’s everywhere, that cologne and sawdust scent permeating all of my senses.
“Why do you still smell like sawdust?” I ask. “You clearly took a shower.”
He chuckles, a smooth, amused rumble. “I was nervous and got ready way too early, so I ended up in my workshop, planing a piece of oak I’m making into a side table.”
“Oh.” I can’t help sniffing him. “I like it.”
“I think I also just smell like sawdust, as a person. The scent is ingrained in my pores, I’m pretty sure.”
My nose buries against his chest, and I inhale deeply—I’m dizzied by the intensity of my reaction to his scent, the way my heart slams in my chest, the way my core clenches and my thighs shake and my hands clutch at him involuntarily. “It’s kind of intoxicating, the way you smell.”
