Page 68 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
And then I take off my shirt and take another selfie in just my skirt and bra, with the rose in my teeth, and I send that one.
Next, I take off my bra, keeping one rose clenched in my teeth, and—this next bit of creativity requires a few attempts to get right—wrap one arm around my breasts to squeeze them together; my wrist covers my left nipple, and the rose covers my right nipple. I snap a photo once I get all my bits properly covered, and send it to Ryder.
Thankfully, these roses have had the thorns removed because next, I slip the rose between my breasts and use my arms to prop them together enough that the rose stays in place, and take another selfie like that, with everything from the waist up bared, the rose between my tits.
I send that one, and then wait.
It’s only a matter of a minute or so before I see the message notification switch to “read” and then three bubbles bounce and jump.
Ryder: You got the flowers, I take it?
Me: My whole house smells like roses.
Me: Where are you? What are you doing?
Ryder: At a job, wiring a built-in surround sound system into a man-cave.
Me: Are you alone?
Ryder: Yes.
Me: How alone?
He sends me a five-second video of himself panning in a circle, and I can see he’s surrounded by an explosion of cords and wires and speakers, there’s a drill on the floor next to a giant toolbox, and there’s a portable work light hooked onto the strut of a ladder. The room is empty, except for him, and the door is closed.
Ryder: See? Totally, completely alone. I’m the only one at the site, as a matter of fact. Why?
I go into my room and sit on my bed, and then FaceTime him, making sure the camera is close enough that all he can see is my face.
“Hi!” he says, as soon as the connection is established. It’s blurry for a second, and the resolves into clarity.
“Hi, baby,” I croon in a singsong voice. “I just wanted to say thanks for the flowers.”
“You do mean the roses, right?” he says with a laugh.
I bring a rose into view on the screen. “Yep.”
He grins. “I had to be sure. I’d never, ever be so fucking lame as to send a bullshit little bouquet of flowers you don’t even like.”
“Message received,” I say. “Loud and clear.”
He looks away, fiddling with something, and then looks back at the screen—the view shifts and I see the ceiling, and then Ryder from a different angle, and the view stabilizes. I realize he propped the phone on something so he could sit down and use both hands while talking to me, and I see his hands every now and then, doing something to a speaker just beneath the bottom edge of the screen.
“So,” he says, grinning at me. “Whatcha doin now?”
I shrug, keeping the camera close. “I dunno. Just…hanging around.” I arch an eyebrow. “Did you get all four of my selfies?”
His grin is heated. “Fuck yeah, babe. Saved ’em to their own folder titled ‘hottest woman alive’.”
I pull the phone away a little, just enough that he can tell I’m not wearing a top. “I like the title. You have photos of anyone else in there?”
He pauses in what he’s doing. “What? Oh…no. Just…just you.”
I pull the phone a little farther away, and now my boobs are entirely within in the frame—I prop them together a bit, for his benefit, since even fake—or, rather, enhanced—boobs sag to the side when you’re lying down. “Just me, huh? So, I’m the hottest woman alive?”
“By several orders of magnitude.” He blows out a breath. “Laurel…god. You make it seriously fucking impossible to get work done.”
I shrug, and his eyes follow the movement of my breasts. “I just wanted to…show my appreciation.”
He rubs his jaw. “I might send you flowers every week if you’re going to appreciate me this much.”
I laugh. “Oh god, don’t send this many again, though. You’ll go broke!”
His eyes are fixed on my chest. “Worth every penny.”
I bite my lip, hesitating, and then shake my tits at him just for fun. “I have an idea.”
He narrows his eyes. “I can’t do anything here, Laurel.” He groans again. “I absolutely cannot jack off at a job site.”
I can’t help a laugh. “Oh my god, no. That’s a terrible idea.” I knead one breast, then the other. “What if you came over tonight?”
He blinks at me. “I…um. I won’t be done here until late, Laurel. I really have to get this done.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck. Why do you have to tempt me?”
I hesitate, biting my lip, and then forge ahead with my naughty, impulsive idea. “To the left of my front door, in the landscaping bed, there’s a little ceramic garden gnome. He’s about a foot tall, and he’s holding a lamp in one hand—the lamp actually lights up, it’s solar powered.”
