Page 29 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
He huffs a laugh, resting his forehead against mine. “Oh. For a second I thought you’d—”
“Changed my mind?” I ask, tangling my fingers in his beard and tugging his mouth back down to mine. “No way,” I murmur, my lips moving against his.
“Oh. I hadn’t noticed a zipper, so I thought it would just go up and off like a shirt.”
I snicker. “Not a chance. It’s way too tight for that. It’d get stuck…” I arch an eyebrow suggestively, “in certain places.”
“I could try. That might be fun.”
I smirk, suppressing a laugh. “More funny than fun if you think watching me struggling awkwardly to get out of the world’s tightest dress is funny.” I bite my lip. “When I tried this on earlier, to make sure it was what I wanted to wear before taking a shower, I tried taking it off over my head.” I laugh, then. “It was…not sexy. I got it halfway off over my head, and then it got stuck at my boobs. I was legitimately stuck in my dress for five minutes. I had to work one arm out underneath and then yank it off the rest of the way. And thank god I hadn’t done my hair yet because it would’ve been totally ruined.”
“Ah. Well…” He tugs the strap down one shoulder, then the other. “As much as I love a good laugh…let’s go with down, this time.”
“This time?”
“No guarantees I won’t try it the other way at some point, just to watch you get stuck. It seems like it’d be the perfect combination of sexy and funny.”
“You’d just stand there, watching and laughing, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes go to my chest as he slowly peels the dress down. “Absolutely.” He guides my arms out of the straps. “And then I’d help you out of it.”
“Good to know.” I laugh, but the humor is hard to hold on to when Ryder’s eyes blaze with lust as he slowly, carefully peels my dress down over my bra. “If I ever get stuck, I’ll have to wait for you to help me.”
“Hey, I’m helping you right now. You looked stuck in this thing. I mean, god, it looked awfully uncomfortable. So tight, so constricting. I figured you needed help getting it off.”
I can’t help laughing. “Oh yeah, for sure. Thank you, Ryder, for such a selfless act. You must be a saint.”
He has the dress past my breasts and continues to peel and tug it downward. It’s bunched, now, though, and stuck. I don’t help him. He sinks to his knees in front of me, and my heart leaps into my throat. Anticipation sears through me, pulsing in my blood. I tingle, his touch electric; I gasp, his gaze ravenous.
With a yank that has me stumbling and inhaling in surprise, he jerks the dress past my hips, and now I’m standing in front of him wearing nothing but the lingerie I chose for this precise moment.
Red lace…completely sheer. Racerback, push-up. It hides nothing, shows everything. Emphasizes, teases. Taunts. Promises.
The thong is a barely there slip of red lace over my core and a string around my waist.
“Fuck,” Ryder growls, sinking backward to sit on his heels. “Fucking hell, Laurel.”
My breath catches at the utter worship in his gaze. “What, Ryder?”
He lurches to his feet and clasps me in a swift, sudden, fierce embrace, his arms wrapping around me, curling me into him, cradling me against him. His hand claws into my ass, the other grips python-strong around my shoulders, and I’m bent backward and dipped, my head in the crook of his arm. I’m utterly helpless, off balance, off my feet completely, dangling in the air, held up only by the strength in his arms. He’s over me, his lips hungrily grazing mine, teasing, touching, and then smashing in for a searing kiss.
I’m dizzy, giddy. Utterly enthralled.
I’ve never in my life been dipped backward for a kiss. It looks romantic in the movies, but I always thought the reality would be frightening. In truth, it is, because I’m so helpless. I can only cling to his shoulders and palm his jaw and whimper into the kiss and let him hold me, losing myself in the hunger of his kiss. I can only trust him to keep me cradled safely in his arms.
The kiss becomes a conflagration, swiftly igniting into more than just a kiss.
He stands me up and presses me up against the door and palms my cheek, and his hand slides up my hip and cups my breast over the lace.
“This one goes up,” I murmur.
The kiss broken, he drags his lips down, nuzzling into the side of my neck. I exhale softly, his beard tickling and scratching, his lips warm and wet, his tongue licking at my skin. A kiss to my shoulder. My breastbone, at the peak of the valley of my cleavage. Down, down, kissing and kissing his way to my left breast. Over the lace. My nipple hardens as his mouth nears it, and then throbs and aches as his mouth closes over it, the lace between his lips and tongue and my flesh. Another kiss, dancing across and kissing the inside of the left, then the right, and now my right nipple is aching as well, his hot breath huffing against it, searing through the lace, pressing the scratchy material against my nipple. And then his tongue flicks against the lace, and I gasp.
