As he backs out, his eyes look for me.
A bolt of daring slams through me; I don’t give myself time to second-guess or doubt myself.
I grasp the hem of my shirt and lift it up. For a reason I couldn’t have explained, when I got dressed this morning I put on my favorite, fanciest, raciest bra, a barely there demi bra in vivid red lace. I don’t stop at just lifting my scrub shirt up for a quick flash, though—oh no. When I do something rash and possibly stupid, I go all the way.
I take my shirt off completely.
And then, just because I’m the way I am, I tug the knot of my scrub pants, which promptly fall into a pool around my ankles, revealing the fact that I’m wearing the matching red thong.
Jesse, still backing out, is looking at me rather than where he’s going and almost crashes into a car passing behind him—it honks its horn angrily and Jesse slams on his brakes just in time.
I cringe at having almost caused him to wreck but, at the same time, I’m pleased I had that effect on him.
And then, with a crunch of gears, he throws his truck into park, leaves it running, shoves open his door, and storms back toward my house.
His expression isn’t angry, it’s…
I don’t know what it is, because he’s through my front door and stomping up the stairs before I have time to register what’s happening.
And he’s in my bedroom doorway, filling the frame, shoulders heaving, eyes sparking, fists clenched.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” I breathe, “I didn’t mean to almost cause a wreck.”
“Imogen, you can’t pull a stunt like that and think there won’t be consequences,” he growls.
7
“I—I—”
That’s all I get out before he’s across the room, his bulk pinning me back against the wall beside the window, his lips slanting across mine, slamming roughly, tongue eagerly, forcefully demanding mine. I give in to him, give him my tongue, give him my lips, and press my body up against his. His zipper presses hard against me, the bulge behind it even harder.
I throb.
My core is damp, slick, and hot.
I pulsate with need, every vessel and molecule and pore of my body demanding more.
His hands cup my waist, gently at first, and then when I respond so voraciously to his kiss, his fingers tighten into claws. They scrape down and latch onto my hips, dimpling the flesh. His fingers walk around to grasp my buttocks, taking a palmful of each cheek and pulling against him, grinding himself against me.
I whimper.
Moan.
“Jesse,” I breathe. “Please.”
I don’t know what I’m asking for. What I even want.
My voice, the whimper, his name, my plea—it seems to shake him out of a trance. He abruptly releases me, staggering backward. His jeans are tented at the zipper, his chest is heaving, his eyes are narrowed and full of fire.
“I have to go,” he snarls. “I—have to go.”
“Jesse, I—”
He shakes his head, backing away from me. “Don’t. Not a word. I have to go, and you are far too tempting to be good for either of us right now.”
I just stand there, returning his stare, trying not to feel rejected. I’m in my bra and underwear, wanting him, kissing him, and he’s walking away.
He hesitates at the door. Wipes his lips with the back of his hand as if to wipe away the residue of my kiss. And then with a wordless growl, stalks back over to me. “Fuck it,” he says, and kisses me again.
This time, I put all I have into the kiss. I do the one thing I’ve wanted to do since the moment I laid eyes on him—well, the two things, in a particular order: I run my hands through his thick glossy unruly black hair, slide my palms down his broad hard back, and take a double handful of his butt.
It’s every bit as rock hard as I thought it would be.
I don’t want to let go.
He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away. “Imogen. I have to go. I can’t blow off our biggest clients.”
“I know.”
He rubs a thumb across my lip. “But don’t think it’s easy for me to walk away.”
“It’s not?”
He laughs, a bark of sarcasm. “Don’t you feel how hard it is for me?”
I grind against him. “Boy, do I ever.”
He growls. “Don’t do that. I’m barely controlling myself right now, Imogen.” He sighs. “It can’t be like this, rushed out of desperation.”
“I don’t mind admitting I feel a little desperate, Jesse,” I say, reluctantly letting go of his amazing ass.
“Yeah, me too.” He laughs. “Okay, I’ve got to go. For real.”
I wait, but he doesn’t move, his hands still resting on my waist, just above my hips. “Jesse?”
He growls, backing away. “Go hide in the bathroom or something.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” He steps backward and waves a hand at me, gesturing from head to toe. “You, in that? How the hell am I supposed to voluntarily walk away when you’re standing there looking like that and all but begging me to do all sorts of dirty, wicked things to you?”
I feel a thrill bolt through me—flattered pride and renewed confidence. I have a pink terrycloth bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of my bedroom door; I take the robe off the hook and put it on, cinching it tight, obscuring my body from throat to calves.
“There. Better?” I ask, gripping the edges of the robe to keep from grabbing him again.
He snorts. “No, of course not. Covering up your beautiful body is a goddamn travesty, but at least now I can make myself leave.” He turns to leave, but once again halts in the doorway; this time, though, he stays facing away from me. “Next time you feel compelled to tease me like that, you’d better be prepared for me to lose all my control. Because I just used every last ounce of self-control I have where you’re concerned.”
“Maybe next time I won’t be wearing anything under the scrubs,” I hear myself say.
“Goddammit, Imogen,” he growls. “What are you trying to do, woman? Kill me?”
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “You seem to bring out the worst in me.”
His eyes narrow. “I haven’t even fucking started bringing out the worst in you.”
“Go,” I breathe, “before I do anything else rash.”
And so he goes.
And when he’s gone—really gone, his truck rumbling around the corner and out of sight—I strip off the robe and the underwear and throw myself onto my bed.
What the hell has gotten into me? What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m never this bold, never. Even with Lee, I wasn’t like this. I would go along with what he wanted, but it was always his idea, I just went along with it. Eagerly, willingly, voraciously—but none of the wild or daring stuff was ever my idea or at my instigation.
God, I have to be losing my mind.
I’ve clearly gone too long without sex and it’s warped my mind and rotted out my inhibitions and better sense.
I DO NOT KNOW JESSE AT ALL, I remind myself.
Yet I’ve stuck my tongue down his throat, he’s had a glimpse at my bare hoo-ha, I strip-teased for him down to my underwear, let him grab my ass, and grabbed his. I really have all but begged him to…
Well…
Fuck me six ways to Sunday, that’s what.
And I don’t know him.
Do I even know his last name? I don’t think I do.
I’m crazy.
This is stupid and crazy and irresponsible and reckless and even if I am officially divorced and single, getting involved with a guy right now is probably a bad idea.
A really, really bad idea.
If I had any sense I would call Audra and get her to talk some sense into me. Although, to be honest, she’d probably tell me I hadn’t gone far enough.
But, back to Jesse. Jesse is…
Too much.
There has to be a flaw somewhere.
Because, hon
estly, I’ve never met anyone so hot, so skilled, so kind and generous, and so funny and easy to hang around with, and a great kisser, and his hands are so strong and… I’d put up with a whole lot of things for a guy like him.
That sends a blast of cold water through me.
Because that thought was a long-term kind of thought. A getting attached kind of thought.
But…how can I not get attached when he does the things he does for me, when he says the things he says to me, when he kisses me the way he just kissed me?
Not once, but twice.
Those hands on my butt? His hands are big and strong, so even my big juicy ass fits perfectly in them. I wonder where else his hands fit?
Sliding up my stomach, cupping my breasts? Thumbs flicking my nipples?
I let my hands be guided by my imagination, pretending my hands are Jesse’s. I cup my tits, flick my nipples until they’re hard as diamonds and sending bolts of intense sensation through my whole body. And then I let one hand drift down between my thighs, to my tense, wet core. God, I’m so turned on I don’t even need my vibrator. Half a dozen slow circles of my fingers around my clit and I’m gasping, wishing they were his hands, his fingers. Better yet, his tongue…
Oh god—I come hard, immediately, thinking of Jesse’s beard rasping against my thighs and his tongue slicking against my opening—
Even as I come, I reach for the stimulator and crank it all the way up, press it to myself, and slide two fingers inside, wishing and pretending it’s him, and that he’s here in all his masculine, muscular glory. I come a second time imagining him touching me, licking me, kissing me, moving over me to fill me…
But even when I’ve come twice and I’m too overstimulated to come again, I’m not sated. The tension and the need are still there.
If anything, getting myself off thinking about Jesse is only making it worse.
Two days later, as I’m retrieving my mail, I find an envelope with my name scrawled on it in thick black Sharpie. Inside is an invoice printed on a Dad Bod Contracting header. It’s a very neat, professional invoice, breaking down the labor for the window installations.
Twelve hundred dollars. I go faint at first, but then after thinking about it, I realize that twelve hundred dollars to remove eleven old windows, widen the openings, install new windows, and create a whole new opening on the stairs is…well, it’s all but thievery on my part.
A hundred bucks per window, essentially.
I don’t have the money, since the mortgage is due soon and I don’t get my last check from Dr. Bishara for another week, but I write a check for the exact amount anyway and put it in an envelope, copy the address listed on the invoice, and put a stamp on it. It’s not until after I’ve put the check in the mailbox, lifted the flag, and gone back inside that I realize Jesse wrote a note on the back of the invoice:
* * *
Imogen,
I wish James would let me not charge you, but he’s a tightwad like that. I really have had an amazing time working on your house (and getting to know you!) and I hope, selfishly, that you have something else on your Honey-Do list just so I can come back over and fix it.
Or, just call me. Or text me.
Even if something isn’t broken, if you’re so inclined.
Hope to talk to you again soon,
Jesse O’Neill
* * *
PS: don’t be too surprised if I just show up at some point. I may not be able to help myself.
* * *
I have his number in my phone, so I bring up a new thread and try to figure out what to say to him.
Me: I have a check in the mail for you. Thanks for being so cheap! You deserve so much more than what you charged me for the amazing work you did. Say thanks to Franco and the others for me.
Jesse: You could have waited to send the check. No rush. And you’re welcome. Wish it could have been less, or free. I feel wrong about charging you. Franco says if you want to thank him, meet us at Billy Bar. It’s our favorite local watering hole. He’ll buy you drinks as thanks.
Me: Him buying me drinks as thanks makes no sense. I do know where Billy Bar is, but I have to work early in the morning, so I’ll have to take a rain check on that tonight. Thanks for the invite, though.
Jesse: Consider it a standing invitation. We’re there pretty much every night after work. Not late, and we don’t go hard…not anymore at least. Just a few buddies having a few drinks. Low key.
Jesse: If you ever do come, I’ll buy you a few shots of tequila and hope tequila works on you like it does the girl in the Joe Nichols song.
Me: LOL. Didn’t peg you for a country music fan.
Jesse: I’m not, but James is, and if we have to ride together in his truck, country is all he’ll listen to. Gag.
Jesse: Does it, though?
Me: Does it what?
Jesse: Make your clothes fall off.
Me: at this point in my life, Jesse, pretty much any alcohol will make my clothes fall off. A slight breeze, for that matter. Hell, just say please.
Jesse: Please?
I laugh out loud.
Me: You’re with Franco. If I send you a pic right now, he’ll see it.
Jesse: You think I’d let that tool see it? Not a chance! I’d guard it with my life.
Am I really considering doing this?
God, I’m pathetic.
I can’t send him a full nude, though—I need to leave him something to want. I can’t give it all away all at once.
An idea strikes me, and I race upstairs to my bedroom. In the closet of my bedroom is a single box of things from my life with Nicholas that I didn’t throw away—mostly photos from our wedding, simply because there are some great, nostalgic photos of me with my parents, and me with Audra. Also in the box are the envelopes I sent the invitations in, and the large, pink, heart-shaped stickers I used to seal the envelopes. I’d bought a huge quantity of them simply because it was cheaper, and never threw the extras away because they’re pretty, and I’ve actually used the stickers for various things in the past.
Never anything like this, though.
I toss a packet of stickers on my bed, close my blinds, and then strip out of my clothes. Naked, I ask myself again if I’m really going to do this. It’s rash, irresponsible, and crazy. It’s not the kind of thing a divorced forty-year-old woman is supposed to do.
Or maybe it is.
I don’t know.
But I’m doing it.
I place a sticker on each of my nipples—the stickers are just barely large enough to cover my nipples, and I mean barely. If my nipples were to get hard, the stickers would probably pop off. I make sure my bed is neatly made, and there’s nothing on the floor around the bed, and then climb on the bed and try a few poses with my phone in selfie mode.
God, this is hard.
Why am I doing this?
Because I’m dumb, and horny, and desperately want him to like me.
Because I desperately need his approval and compliments; the affirmation that I’m still attractive to someone is addictive.
Yeah, I realize all this, objectively.
Still doing it.
I snap a few photos. The picture I end up liking best is of me sitting up, weight on one arm, with one leg curled under me and the other bent up and crossed over to hide my core, with my torso twisted to face forward, chest pushed forward, shoulders back. The expression on my face is the hardest part to get right, I find. Try too hard to look sultry and I just look constipated. Can’t be a blank look either, or a typical selfie grin. And not too serious.
Finally, after about thirty deleted tries, I have one I feel is decent. I’ve edited it a tiny bit, just to brush out some wrinkles and work some magic on the lighting, but I’m pleased with it, for my first and only nude selfie.
My tits look good—big, firm, perky. The stickers are coming loose in the photo, which even sort of adds to the sexiness of it, because you can almost but not quite get a glimpse of my nipples.
&
nbsp; Before I send the photo, I text Jesse: I’m going to send you something. You have to promise me no one will ever see it except you.
His reply is instantaneous: I’m actually alone in the bathroom at the moment. And I promise on my life, and on my honor as a man.
Me: Okay, well…I’m probably crazy for sending you this, but…here you go.
Before I can second-guess my recklessness, I send the photo.
And immediately panic.
Oh dear god—what did I just do? I just sent a man a topless photo of myself.
He’ll show it to Franco and James and everyone he knows.
He’ll post it online.
Worse yet, he won’t like it and he’ll ghost on me.
He texts me back a few seconds later: Holy shit, Imogen! I have no words. None.
Me: that is, very literally the only nude I’ve ever sent anyone.
Jesse: Really?
Me: Absolutely. Like I said, you bring out the worst in me. Or, to be fair, not the worst, just…the craziest. You make me do crazy shit I have no business doing. Like sending you a nude.
Jesse: I see nothing crazy about it.
Jesse: You’re incredible. I have to stay in the bathroom and not look at the pic just so I can go back out without embarrassing myself. My buddies are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
Me: You like it that much?
Jesse: Imogen. Legit, I’m fighting the urge to whack off in the bathroom of this fucking bar. That’s how much I like it.
Me: I’m not sure I believe you’re that turned on. I might need photographic proof.
Jesse: Are you soliciting a dick pic from me?
Me: *blinks innocently* why, no. That would be positively salacious of me.
Jesse: Can’t say I’ve ever actually taken a picture of my own dick before.
Me: You can be…creative about it. Also, you don’t have to. I was just being silly.
Jesse: Don’t walk it back now, Imogen. Never apologize for what you want, and never hesitate to ask for what you want. With me, and in life. You deserve everything you want and more.
Me: Don’t ruin our witty banter with your damned heartfelt saccharine bullshit. ;-)