I follow behind him across the parking lot, clinging to his hand, until we reach the lineup of trucks—and my Camry. I let go of his hand and dig in my clutch for my purse, but Jesse puts his hand at the small of my back and ushers me forward, between his truck and my car. Only, I’m on the wrong side of my car.
“Um, Jesse? The steering wheel is on the other side of my car,” I point out.
His eyes dark and smoldering, he just smirks. “I know. But you’re not driving.”
“I’m not?”
He shakes his head, digging his keys from his pocket and blipping the locks open. “Nope. I’m kidnapping you.”
“Oh. I—oh.” He steps around the hood, leans past me, and opens the passenger door of his truck. He’s so close I can smell him, feel his heat. “Where are we going?”
He presses his lips to my ear. “My house.”
“Oh. Okay,” I whisper, shaking all over with excitement and need and nerves. “Why?”
“Because I live outside town, on a big chunk of land, with no neighbors.”
“Okay…?” I ask, prompting for the reasoning behind this seeming non sequitur.
He nips my earlobe between his teeth, and then whispers in my ear. “That way, when I make you scream so loud the chandeliers rattle, there’ll be no one around to hear.”
My breath leaves me in a sudden, whimpering whoosh. “Oh god, Jesse. You know what it does to me when you talk like that?”
He presses up behind me, his mouth still against my ear. “No, Imogen. What’s it do to you?”
“It makes me wet.” I whisper this, and I can’t quite believe it’s me saying it, but the thrill racing through my blood tells me it’s the right thing to say. And also, it’s true. So, so true.
He growls, and his hand cups my hip. His teeth sink into my earlobe again, so I feel his growl as well as hear it. His body behind me, the door to my left, I’m sheltered between his truck and him, in a hot tense bubble of sexuality. I smell the leather of his seats, the distinct smell of a particular person’s lived-in vehicle. Feel his chest against my back. His hips against my buttocks. His erection against my tailbone. His breath on my ear. His growl vibrating throughout me.
And his hand, powerfully cupping my hipbone. Slowly, deliberately, giving me time to stop him, his hand travels down to my thigh, to the hem of my dress. I press my hands against the edge of the seat, gripping the pebbled leather hard. I stop breathing as his hand slides between my thighs and slowly floats upward, under my dress.
“Dirty talk makes you wet?” he murmurs. “Here?”
I shift my feet farther apart and twist my head so my lips graze his cheek, just above his beard line. “It does when it’s you talking that way to me.”
“How wet?” he asks, his fingers tracing a V around the edges of my underwear over my core.
“I don’t know,” I say, swallowing doubt and embracing need, “you’d have to find out for yourself.”
He groans, whether from need or from relief, I don’t know. It’s his only response, though, other than to tease a light touch of his fingertip over the lace covering my core. I huff a breath out, head hanging. His touch has the front of my dress riding up, baring most of my thighs, and his hand covers my core. It’s so erotic, watching his hand steal slowly upward from my core to the waistband of my thong, and then watching his fingers slip under the elastic. More erotic yet to watch his hand fill the red lace as his palm covers me, and then his fingertip is grazing over my opening, and I can’t breathe in but my lungs are empty, and my blood is singing. A whine escapes me as he drags his finger up the seam of my core yet again, still not delving in. Just teasing me, learning the shape of me.
I want to beg him to plunge his finger inside me, to touch me, to make me scream like he promised. Instead, I inhale a moan, and wait. He doesn’t disappoint. This time, when his finger grazes downward, it slips between the lips ever so slightly, and I bite my lip. Upward, and a little deeper, and now I’m biting my lip so hard it hurts.
“Jesse…” I whisper, my face still turned to his, my lips brushing his cheek.
He tilts my chin so our mouths meet, and as his tongue finds mine; he delves into me, slipping a digit into my pulsing wet heat. I moan loudly through the kiss at the delicious intrusion. I whimper and gasp as he draws his finger out, only just barely brushing me where I’m most sensitive.
I smell my own essence, and open my eyes to see him pop his finger into his mouth with a groan.
“So wet, and sweet as sugar.”
“Oh god, Jesse.” I’m having trouble formulating thoughts beyond animal, primal instinct. “I want—I need…”
“What, Imogen?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against my back. “What do you want—what do you need?”
“Everything.” It’s the only possible answer.
“Then let’s get going,” he answers, and slides a hand under my thighs and an arm around my waist and lifts me up into his truck, gently depositing me on the seat. He reaches across to buckle me in, taking extra effort to make sure the seat belt strap rests snugly between my breasts. I laugh at this, because I’m fully aware he did it more for his own visual enjoyment than for my safety.
“What?” he says, his tone protesting his innocence.
“I am familiar with the notion of strapboob, Jesse.”
He laughs with me as he climbs behind the steering wheel. “I just wanted to make sure you were properly buckled in.”
He navigates his way out of the parking lot and heads out of town. The inside of his truck is silent except for the slight buffeting of wind from the windows being cracked a few inches. I see his gaze occasionally shift over to me, slide up and down my body, and then flick back to the road.
So, feeling daring and full of my own sensuality, I decide to play a little game of chicken. I gather the hem of my dress in my fingers while he’s watching the road, lifting up slightly and surreptitiously tugging the dress up higher, baring more of my thighs. The next time he glances back at me, his eyes linger longer, until he has to visibly force himself to return his attention to the road.
When he checks his blind spot over his left shoulder to change lanes, I quickly reach up and tug the already low neckline of my dress down, and the cups of my bra with it, so all of my breasts except my nipples and areolae are bared.
And, again, his gaze steals over to me, and lingers, sweeps up and down and back up, until he yet has to force himself to look back at the road.
I allow a brief, secret smile at the effect my game is having.
I wait until he glances out his window to watch a particularly fancy sports car go past, and I tug the hemline of my dress higher yet, several inches this time; it’s high enough now that if I spread my thighs open a bit—like so—he’ll be able to see hints of the lace of my thong.
He looks me up and down once more, and now a grin steals across his face as he wises up to what’s happening. “Saucy little minx, aren’t you?”
I blink innocently at him. “What do you mean?” I ask, in a breathy Jessica Rabbit voice.
He just shakes his head and laughs. “Nothing—nothing at all.”
And so I continue my game.
He makes a left turn, and while he’s focusing on the turn, I tug the neckline lower yet, a fine-tuning adjustment so that the upper half-circle of my areolae are visible. When his gaze returns to me, my hands are on my lap, idly fidgeting. Fortunately, for both of us, there’s another stoplight, and Jesse takes this moment to let his gaze rest on my breasts for a long, long moment.
“Goddamn, Imogen—you’re killing me.”
I just grin at him. “Am I? How?”
He shifts in his seat, and then, with a glance at me, he pivots his hips upward, shoves his hand down his pants, and adjusts himself. I’ve never considered that particular movement to be sexy when a guy does it, but somehow, Jesse makes it sexy, arousing. Enticing.
I want to plunge my hand into his pants, feel him fill my hand, feel him swell against m
y palm and fill my grip. I watch every moment of his adjustment, picturing the long thick ridge from the underwear selfie, and the erection I’ve felt pressed against me.
“Having problems?” I ask, smirking at him.
“Yeah, I am,” he growls. “I’m about to bust through this damn zipper.”
“How far are we from your house?” I ask.
“Another ten minutes,” he murmurs. “Which is ten minutes too long.”
“Drive faster?” I suggest.
He shakes his head. “Nah, this road is regularly patrolled by Staties. There’s one in particular who likes to sit parked in this little stand of trees where nobody can see him from either direction, but he can pull out in a hurry to pop speeders. I learned that the hard way,” he chuckles. “Got the points on my license to prove it, too. So no, I’ll go the speed limit and just hope either the zipper holds or you quit playing with fire.”
“Playing with fire?” I ask. “How do you mean?”
He glances at me, his gaze hot and rife with promise. “You keep playing your little striptease game, my restraint is gonna snap and I’m going stop this truck and rip that goddamn gorgeous dress off your goddamn gorgeous body and get the taste of you I’ve been craving since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“Why don’t you?” I ask, daring him with a lifted chin and a lick of my tongue over my lips.
“Because I want you in my bed for that, so I can take the hours and hours I’ll need to explore every inch of that luscious body.”
“Oh.” I glance at him, watching him shift in his seat, squirming in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure in his jeans. “There’s another option you may not have considered.”
He decelerates to a stoplight, and then looks at me. “What option would that be?”
“This one,” I say, reaching across the console.
He keeps both hands on the steering wheel, and I see his jaw flexing, tensing as I find the button of his jeans and pop it open, and then find the tab of his zipper and tug it down, slowly, inch by inch, until his jeans are sagging open and his erection is bulging against the gray cotton of his underwear to fill the opening.
“There,” I say, resting my hand on his thigh. “That should help relieve the pressure some, right?” I’m intentionally teasing him, now.
“Fuck,” he moans. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”
“How would it be worse?” I ask.
We’re zipping down a two-lane highway now, trees on the right, open fields on our left, the moon high and half-full overhead. It’s beautiful out here, peaceful, serene, quiet. I can’t quite appreciate it, though—I’m far too laser-focused on Jesse.
“There’s less pressure now, so I’m not in danger of popping the zipper, but you’ve only gotten me partway to where I selfishly want you to take me.”
A tactful way of putting it.
I chew on my lower lip, trying to decide how far I want to take this. How daring am I?
I feel the thrill of a shiver run through me, and I know I’m not about to dial it back at this stage in the game. My hand is still resting on his solid thigh; I trace it upward, fingers dragging over the rough denim, across the cold teeth of the zipper, to the soft cotton and the firm-yet-soft bulge beneath. Alternating between watching my hands and his face, I hook two fingers under the elastic and tug it away and downward. The broad pink of him emerges, and I suck in a breath at the thickness of it. Holy mother of wow—seeing it in person, in the flesh is…my heart races, my hands tremble, and my breath shortens.
“Imogen,” Jesse groans, “dammit, woman.”
“What? Is this not helping?” I know damn well it’s not. He wants my hands around him as much if not more than I want it, just like I want his fingers inside me as much if not more than he wants them there.
“Define helping.”
“I could help all the way if you want.” I glance at him, watching for his reaction.
He tilts his head back, closes his eyes briefly, and lets out a long, tortured growl. “Fuuuuuuck. You know how crazy it makes me when you suggest stuff like that?”
“How crazy?”
“Crazy enough that I’m tempted to tell to you to do your worst. Or your best, depending how you look at it.”
Desire to see more him, touch more of him races through me, controls me, and I take his words as either a dare or permission. I do what I wanted to do moments ago—I delve my hand into his underwear and take hold of him.
My breath fails, and my heart stutters—he’s huge. Hot and hard in my hand, spreading my fingers apart. Soft, smooth. Ripples, and veins, and the smooth roundness of the tip under my thumb, moisture leaking. He groans and his hips shift forward, and I reach over the console with my other hand to tug the underwear away so I can see better. I let him go and just look at him—a massive thick shaft of pink flesh, the head bobbing against his belly with his breathing and the bump and sway of the truck.
He makes a turn off the highway onto a narrow gravel road that winds down a hill and through a copse of trees, up another hill, and then angles across a wide field of tall grass waving in the breeze. In the distance, a house sits on a hill surrounded by rolling green hills, a ring of trees in the distance.
“That’s my place up ahead,” Jesse murmurs.
I have him in my hand again, hot and throbbing. I stroke, once, slowly, downward, and he growls in his chest, hips flexing, and then his hand wrenches mine away.
“Not yet. You keep touching me like that, I won’t last half a second. I want you too bad.”
I almost whimper at the loss of him in my hand—it’s almost as maddening as feeling his finger inside me for a single delving moment. More—I want more. So much more.
Everything.
He’s hauling ass now that he’s on his own property; we jolt down a hill and over a rut, and then he’s skidding to a stop in the circular dirt driveway in front of his home. It’s a beautiful white two-story Victorian farmhouse, with a wraparound stretching around the entire home, twin dormers on the roof; the shutters are painted a deep scarlet, and the front door is red as well. An acre or so of grass around the home itself is mown, fertilized, and watered, but the rest beyond it is wild and untamed.
Dust swirls in the moonlight and in the twin beams of the headlights, and then he’s shutting the engine off and opening his door. He roughly refastens his jeans and hops out, circles to my side before I’m even unbuckled. My door flies open, and he hauls me out, carries me in his arms up the stairs to his porch, and sets me down to fit his key into the lock. I take the time, while he’s unlocking the door, to fix my dress. He fumbles a moment or two, and then with an impatient shove, the door swings open and we step in.
The interior is obscured in shadows and slices of moonlight at first, and then he flicks a few switches just inside the front door, illuminating the home, revealing a beautiful open-plan main floor with acres of polished hardwood, gleaming stone countertops, stainless steel appliances, open face cabinets, a deep leather couch, seascape and landscape artwork on the walls. I move around the main level, which includes the living room, dining room, kitchen, a small walk-in pantry, and a half bathroom. There’s a lovely rocking chair in the living room, handmade from the looks of it, and a matching side table. The dining room table and matching chairs all have a similar look as the rocking chair and side table, making me think all three pieces were made by the same person or company.
Jesse sees me looking at the rocking chair. “All the wooden furniture in here was made by Franco. He’s a master finishing carpenter, and he handcrafts furniture on the side. The chair, the side table, and the dining room set were his housewarming gift to me when I finished renovating this place.”
I glance around. “You renovated this yourself?”
Jesse snorts. “No—I, a professional builder, hired someone else.” He laughs. “Of course I did. Took me, like, two years to do the whole thing, but I wasn’t in a hurry. Obviously the guys helped. We’d finish work
on Friday evening, come out here, and work on a bit here and there. This is where I spent pretty much every weekend for two years.”
“It’s really beautiful,” I say.
He digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his photographs until he finds a set. “Scroll to the right. The first few are from when I first bought it.”
Standing in his gorgeous kitchen, I swipe through the photographs, and I’m truly amazed. I knew Jesse was skilled, but what he’s done here is artistry. The before photographs show a house that was probably seconds from being condemned. The roof was falling in, the front porch was sagging, and the siding was missing in places. More photos showed the inside, which was in even worse shape. Walls were missing chunks, the ceilings were bulging and sagging with water damage, there was old sheet-covered furniture and garbage and animal nests and inches of dust.
“I ripped the entire roof off, and tore out every wall that wasn’t load bearing. The real saving grace here is that the original hardwood floors had all been covered at some point by this god-awful shag carpeting, so they’d been really well preserved pretty much everywhere. The floors and the exterior walls are all that’s original; everything else has been totally rebuilt. All the wiring, all the plumbing, lighting, everything we did from scratch.”
“A real labor of love, huh?” I ask, handing him his phone back.
“Yeah, sure was.” He waves a hand at the kitchen. “So, want a tour?”
I gaze up at him. “Yeah, sure.” I lick my lips and go for the truth. “As long as the tour ends in your bedroom.”
His smile is predatory. “Who says we need a bed for what I have in mind?”
“What—what do you have in mind?”
He just smirks. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
God, I hope so. Now that we’ve backed away from the heat of the moment, my nerves are jangling on high alert. Need hasn’t abated, and neither has my desire for him, but knowing what’s happening, where this is going—the anticipation is making me vibrate with anxiety and doubt and self-consciousness, on top of the need and desire.