Page 22 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
He dips, nuzzling his face in my cleavage, inhaling as deeply as I did. “I know the feeling.” He lowers himself to his knees, and his hands push my shirt up, baring my midriff and the lower curve of my bra cups; his nose skates across my skin, and his hands cup my waist. “You smell incredible.”
“What’s your theory, Franco?” I ask, trying hard to sound in control and to cover the shakiness of my voice. Hard to do while his fingers dance around my waist, teasing and tickling my skin above the denim, and then toy with the button and zipper. “About only ever fucking the same person four times, that is.”
He touches his lips to my skin, a damp hot kiss just south and west of my navel—I gasp. He transfers this slow touch of his lips eastward, following the horizon of the waistline of my jeans. One kiss, two, three. And then his fingers busy themselves, nudging the brass button through the buttonhole and tugging my zipper down, and then hooking into the lacy crimson elastic of my panties where they’re now visible. Tugging them down an inch and then two, he kisses me again, lower, and lower.
Finally, pulling his lips from my skin, he stares up at me while he hooks two fingers of each hand in the belt loops on either side of my waist, slowly and inexorably peeling my jeans downward, leaving my panties in place. “I came to the theory through a lot of experimentation,” he says, his eyes on mine while his hands continue peeling my jeans down my thighs. “Once isn’t enough to really enjoy all a person has to offer. It’s too impersonal. Enough for a quick release, but that’s about it. Once has its place but, in general, it’s not enough for me. Two and three times are pretty much the same—still not enough. You get to know the other person, what they like and what you like, but you’re still just strangers meeting in the dark. Five and beyond is too much. You risk letting it get personal. After five encounters, you start to sort of instinctively share things, personal things. You start to…connect. You ignore your better sense of things. Four, in my experience, is just right. Enough that you’ve gotten a sense about the other person, but you can still keep your emotional and personal distance. You can break it off easily with no hard feelings or awkwardness. You’ve had enough to pretty much know you’ve enjoyed what the other person has to offer, but you’re not tempted to think it could be anything else. You can go your way satisfied, yet not invested.”
“Oh,” I whisper. “I guess that makes sense.”
My jeans are in a pile on the floor off to one side, and I’m in my black sleeveless top, bra, and panties. He fits my feet back into my heels, levering me a few inches higher once again. Now, his eyes rake down, taking in my cleavage and the red triangle of my thong, and then my thighs. Standing like this, the insides of my thighs just barely kiss, leaving a tiny keyhole between them. In the heels, my butt pops out even more, but facing him like this, he can’t really see that.
I start talking, just to cover the unsteadiness I feel at his gaze, at his touch—a nervousness I have no reason to feel, seeing as we’ve already been naked together.
“Personally, I’ve always gone with the three strikes rule,” I say. “Similar reasoning, though.”
“So you’re not a one-and-done kind of person either?”
I shake my head. “No, not typically. Sometimes, you meet someone and you just know they’re a once and that’s it person, you know? But mostly, I like two or three times. Like you said, enough to learn about each other, but not enough to start feeling like it’s a thing.”
“Exactly.” His eyes, as pale and icy as they are, blister and spark with heat. “Don’t want to risk it becoming a thing.”
His fingers dance up the backs of my legs, tickling behind my knees and skating up my hamstrings. Then, slowly, deliberately, his eyes on mine, he drags all ten fingers down over my buttocks, a teasing, ticklish touch. I catch my breath, a hitch in my lungs. His eyes narrow, jaw tensing.
“Time for dessert,” he murmurs.
Chapter 4
“Dessert?” I question, my voice low, confused; all thoughts have been scattered by the raw hunger in his eyes.
He hooks his index fingers in the straps of my thong at either hip and he slowly drags the undergarment down, down, and off. I don’t even have to take off my shoes—he cups my calf and lifts, one foot and then the other, and the red thong flies across the room to land somewhere near my couch. Naked from waist down, still wearing my heels, top, and bra. My core is drenched, weeping, slick and hot and clenching hard at the look in his eyes.
