Page 85 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I can feel the sexual tension rippling and crackling between us.
Franco groans, pivoting to hold me against him, my breasts crushed against his chest, my head against his breastbone, his hands on my waist. “You’re killing me in that fucking bikini, Audra.”
I murmur a laugh. “Glad you like it. I have a few others that are way sexier.”
“Holy fuck. Well, don’t show me those right now.”
“No, why?” I say, laughing.
“Because I really do just want to hold you. I need to sleep—I’ve been up for almost forty-eight hours at this point. But you’re so fucking sexy I’m not sure I’ll be able to help myself if you don’t cover up somehow.”
“You’re so weak-willed,” I tease.
“You’re telling me if I took off my board shorts right and showed you a monster fucking hard-on, that you’d be totally cool, tell me, nah, let’s just chill?”
I sucked in a harsh breath. “No,” I whisper. “I’m just as weak-willed as you are.”
“Exactly.” He laughs. “So put a shirt on, at least.”
I pull away and go to my suitcase, find one of the T-shirts I brought to sleep in, and shrug into it. “There, is that better?”
He sighs. “Better enough that I can think straight without the urge to throw you onto the floor and fuck you senseless.”
I moan in frustration. “You can’t say shit like that, Franco.” I suck in a deep, steadying breath. “You talk like that, you’ll find yourself on your back, balls deep in my mouth.”
“Fucking hell, Audra.”
I laugh. “You started it.”
“Truce,” he grumbles, closing his eyes and breathing slowly. “I surrender. I’m not strong enough to resist temptation.”
I laugh, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Fine, truce.” I pull back, eying him. “Did you bring any luggage?”
He chuckles. “Nope. I have the clothes on my back and that’s it. Showing up here was…somewhat last minute.”
“What happened?” I ask.
He juts his chin at the bedroom door. “Let’s lay down. I’m seriously bushed beyond all comprehension right now.”
“Lead the way,” I tell him.
He precedes me into the bedroom, his hand tangled in mine. My heart is thrumming madly in my chest, nerves singing in my veins, an aviary fluttering in my belly. Why am I so nervous? We’re just going to sleep.
But it’s more than that.
So much more.
Talking is easy—even as hard as it was to admit I wanted something with Franco, talk is easy. Crossing the line into action—allowing affection and touch that is nonsexual and emotionally intimate…that’s taking this now-what scenario into reality. And that’s scary.
I’m actually shaking all over. My hands are quaking, my breath is coming in short pulses, and part of me wants to run as far away as fast as I can. I’m tempted to call on my old friends sarcasm and vitriol, and to redirect everything into what I know so well—the distraction of sex. But my heart, and that tender little seedling of hope deep down is begging me to let this happen. Be brave. See it through. Let him in.
He seems just as unsure. His palm in mine is clammy, and his hands are usually dry and warm. He moves slowly toward the bed, tugging the blanket and sheet back, letting go of my hand to rub his palms on the front his board shorts.
He laughs, a nervous huff. “It’s stupid and embarrassing to admit this, but I’m actually kind of—”
“I’m scared out of my mind right now,” I tell him. “Or, not scared, just…”
“Nervous?”
I nod, laughing. “It’s stupid, because nothing is happening—”
“But that’s what’s scary about it,” he finishes.
“Exactly.”
A tense, silent moment, and then he slides into the bed, moves to the far side, and glances at me. “Come here, Audra.”
I swallow, let out a breath, and then shakily crawl into the bed. My instinct, once again, is to flop on my back as far from him as possible and lie there like a stiff log. Instead, I push through the nerves—I recall what it felt like in that brief moment of comfort in his arms, in the afterglow, that night in his bedroom.
His warmth envelops me as I slowly, gingerly settle into the cradle of his outstretched arm. I rest my head on his arm, where bicep, shoulder, and chest all meet—it feels like a nook created specifically for me, meant solely for my comfort. I find myself holding my breath as I shift this way and that, getting comfortable. I settle my hand on his chest, as far from the danger zone as possible, and end up with my palm over his heart, and I feel his heart beating, something that is so damned intimate that I feel like I’m going to cry. He curls his arm around me, his hand coming to rest on my hip.
Now that I’m within the shelter of his arms, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. This feels amazing.
