Page 54 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
I’m standing in the middle of his kitchen, my arms crossed over my chest. Franco doesn’t look at me, just withdraws his phone from his pocket, plugs a charger cable into it and tosses it onto the counter near his keys; his wallet joins it. He’s wearing flip-flops, which just seems weird, as he typically wears boots of some kind. He kicks them off and uses his feet to line them up neatly next to the door, beside his familiar steel-toed work boots and a pair of battered cross-trainers.
God, the tension.
It crackled between us all afternoon and evening, sparked and caught fire in the car…now, the tension is a raging inferno. All I’m aware of is him. Every particle of my being is attuned to Franco, and only Franco. He’s just standing there by the side door, hands at his sides, his eyes on me. That inscrutable blue gaze is fixed, laser-like, on mine.
My thighs are pressed tightly together, and my core is weeping with frustrated, agonized need. The last few days I haven’t even been able to bring myself release, unable to reach climax on my own. I tried several times but failed, and failed, and failed, leaving me a worked-up, frustrated disaster. Only several brutally punishing workouts have saved my sanity.
Now I’m here, and he’s here, and I have no idea what to say, or if I should make the first move, or if he will. I don’t even know what that move should be, or what I want it to be.
The tension has burned away any remaining haze from my buzz, leaving only need and awareness of Franco.
His eyes leave mine, raking slowly down to my protruding nipples, clearly visible through the thin dress. Down again, to my center—his nostrils flare and his brow furrows and his jaw grinds, and his hands flex at his sides.
And his zipper tightens.
Yeah, you bet your ass I notice that.
How long have we been standing here, staring at each other in silence? Seconds? Minutes?
Franco lurches forward unsteadily, dragging in a harsh breath. He’s not drunk—at least not on alcohol.
It’s me. Us. Need.
“Goddammit,” he breathes.
“Franco, I—”
I have no idea what I was going to say. But it doesn’t matter.
Before I can get out another syllable, his mouth slams up against mine, his lips scouring, tongue slashing. I whimper in surprise, stiffening all over at the unexpected assault of his mouth on mine, but then need takes over and the taste of his mouth takes over and the heat and wet of his lips and tongue take over, and I melt up against him. My arms are trapped between us, and I slither them out from between our bodies so I can feel the crush of my breasts against his hard chest and the hammer of his heart beating just like mine. I cling to his strong neck and hold him and—I kiss him back.
Abruptly, he rips away, panting. “I had to.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He turns away from me, breathing hard. And then turns back an instant later, his eyes blazing. His hands assume control then, and I’m powerless to stop him even if I wanted to: he plucks at the knot at my nape and the top of my dress sags forward, and then he tugs the top down to my waist. My nipples can’t possibly harden any more, and now they tingle and ache, and my breasts feel heavy and full under his ravenous gaze. He buries his face against my shoulder, and I feel his teeth nip the thin, sensitive skin on my shoulder blade, and then his tongue slides down. I’m gasping under the warmth of his lips, but his hands are busy as well as his mouth. He pulls the rest of my dress away, and hauls down my thong, and I’m naked in front of him. My core tightens and clenches, and desire seeps out of me and I know he smells it.
“Franco,” I whisper.
He just grunts, continuing the journey of his mouth toward my breast. I paw at him, rip at his shirt, tear it off and throw it aside. Claw at his flesh, raking my nails down his broad rippling back and then scraping them up the ridges of his stomach and over the hard slabs of his chest, and then I yank at his shorts, too impatient and desperate to feel him and taste him to bother with zippers and buttons. But the stupid shorts actually fit properly, so I have to slow down and take my lips from wherever it is they’re kissing in a frantic barrage. I have to stop kissing him so I can pop his fly open and yank down the zipper. Then, finally, I can shove the shorts off him, along with his underwear.
As soon as his erection bobs free, I grasp it, moaning at the feel of him in my hands. I caress him as he sucks my nipple into his mouth, and I stroke him as he kisses my breasts with the same wild passion as he kissed my mouth. He groans at my touch, and I’m whimpering, and we’re still just standing in the middle of his kitchen.
