When my hormones are in control, I have no thoughts beyond getting what I want and fulfilling my desires, but now that we’re out of the moment, my brain is starting up again and questions are floating up from deep in the pool of my uncertainty and self-doubt.
What if, when I’m finally naked, I don’t look as good as he thinks I will? What if my butt is too big? What if the wrinkles and dimples on my ass turn him off? What if the fact that my belly isn’t taut and firm and toned—like, say, Audra’s—is a turnoff? What if I’m not as wild and adventurous in bed as he wants me to be? What if he wants things I’m not comfortable with? What if sex with him is bad? What if it’s incredible and I fall for him even harder than I can already feel myself falling?
He’s an avowed hound dog, a lifelong bachelor with no intention or desire to jump into anything deep or committed, and I’m not sure I’m capable of a casual, physical relationship. In a lot of ways, that’s exactly what I want—no-strings sex, fun and free and physically fulfilling, but without all the messy emotions that come along with being involved with someone. That sounds easy and simple and fun, and after my god-awful messy failure of a marriage and the ugly divorce being able to just have good sex and not put my heart at risk sounds kind of nice.
But I know myself. I know how my emotions work, and they operate on a hair trigger.
Jesse is eyeing me. “Where’d you go just now?”
I shake my head, clueless as to how to communicate any of this to him, let alone whether it’d be smart to do so.
What happens, happens—okay, Audra, I’ll try things your way.
“Hey, there’s no pressure, here, okay?” Jesse says, perhaps correctly assessing me.
He tosses his keys onto the counter beside the stove, digs his wallet and phone out of his pocket and tosses them down along with his keys, then leans back against the counter and unties his boots, toes them off and kicks them across the room to land willy-nilly by the back door. His socks join them, and then he turns back to me.
“We could skip the tour for now,” he says, moving closer.
“We could,” I agree, placing my palms flat on his chest.
“I’m a lot more interested in a tour of you.” He lets his gaze roam my body yet again, desire crackling in his eyes—it’s that look that gets me, every time. That look which says he wants me, that he can’t get enough of even just seeing me, fully clothed or otherwise.
“You’ve gotten a pretty good tour already,” I say, tracing the outline of his pec over his T-shirt.
“Nah, I’m gonna need the full, detailed, comprehensive tour.” He spans my waist with both hands. “An in-depth tour.”
“I think that could be arranged,” I say, my voice low.
Yet again, his eyes rake over me, head to toe, several times. “Have I mentioned yet how goddamn incredible you look this evening?”
I shake my head. “That hasn’t come up, no.”
He growls. “God, I’m an idiot. It’s all I’ve been thinking about tonight.”
“What have you been thinking?”
He gestures at me, sweeping his hand up and down. “You, in that dress—you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I laugh, a barking outburst. “Let’s not be ridiculous, Jesse. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
His hands tighten, and he yanks me roughly up against him. “You think I’m joking?” he growls, unamused.
Any hilarity I may have felt vanishes abruptly at the hardness of his body against mine, at the heat and ferocity in his voice. “I—I haven’t felt that way in a long time, so it’s a little hard for me to believe.”
“You don’t have to believe it yourself,” he murmurs. “You just have to know that I believe it.”
“I think you maybe, possibly, are laying it on a little thick,” I admit. “You don’t have to, you know. I’m a sure thing, at least for tonight.”
Jesse’s growl is actually a little scary. “You’ve already accused me of that once, Imogen, and I don’t fuckin’ appreciate it.” His fingers dig into my hips and he holds me hard against his big body, so I have to tilt my head back to meet his fiery brown gaze. “You need to understand something about me, babe. I don’t lay anything on thick. I don’t flatter, or charm, or play games. I’m giving you the raw, unvarnished truth as I see it and feel it. So if I’m standing here telling you I think you, in that sexy-as-fuck little red dress and gold heels, are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes or hands on, you best believe that down to your goddamn atoms. Because I mean that shit with everything I’ve got.”
“I believe you,” I whisper. And I do. You can’t fake intensity like that.
“Do you?” he rumbles. “I’m not so sure. I think maybe you need some convincing.”
I’m trying to formulate a sassy, flirty response still when he slides one palm up my back to cup the back of my head, and then his lips slant across mine. My breath catches as he kisses me—at first it’s a hot whirlwind of lips and teeth, his fingers clutching my nape and clawing into the flesh above my hip. And then he slows it, softening his grip on me, softening his mouth on mine and dipping his tongue against mine. I claw my fingers into fists in his shirt and lift up on my toes, a whimper in my throat.
I’m the first to go for flesh—I need more of him, of his skin, his heat, and his muscle. My fingers release his shirt and find the hem, and slip underneath to scour the hard plane of his stomach. Pushing upward, lifting the shirt, my thumbs following the centerline of his chest, up his sternum and between his pecs. He crosses his arms and peels the pesky T-shirt off and tosses it aside, and I moan in delight at the firm warmth of his chest under my hands. I explore his torso as we kiss, palming his pecs and roaming down his sides, up his back to curl my hands over his shoulders. With each touch, each exploration of his muscled body, I press closer, delving deeper into the kiss, devouring his lips and tongue and breathing his breath.
He rumbles in his chest as I roam his body. His hands leave my nape and hip, and begin their own exploration. He tugs the straps of my dress aside and shoves them down the sides of my arms, baring my shoulders, and then his hands skate down the outsides of my biceps, then jump to my waist. For a moment, his hands span my waist, and then they edge around to the small of my back; my breath catches in my throat and I moan into his mouth as he cups my ass in his hands. A firm grip, then, before he squeezes, kneads, smoothing in circles, teasing and toying with the heft and the bounce.
He breaks the kiss, his palms possessively gripping my buttocks. “Have I mentioned yet how much I love this?” He squeezes as he says this, making sure I know exactly what he’s talking about. “It’s perfect.”
I murmur a laugh. “Funny, because when I called Audra to come over this morning, she told me to get my big beautiful ass into some workout gear, and I got upset that she called my butt big. And she said she was pretty certain you—how did she put it? She said you probably, and I quote, ‘harbor a deep and eternal appreciation for the size and shape of my derrière.’”
Jesse’s response is to gather the fabric of my dress in his fingers, walking the hemline upward until my dress is hiked up over my hips, leaving my ass bare. And, did I mention the underwear I’m wearing is a thong? It’s nothing but a tiny triangle of red lace over my core, a strap around my hips, and a red string. When my ass is bared, he palms it again, with a long, deep groan of unmistakable appreciation.
“Your friend is more right than she knows,” he says. “Your ass is perfect.”
“I guess I’m just self-conscious. I used to be in great shape, but I’ve slacked off over the past few years.”
Jesse sighs. “Imogen. Stop. Just stop. You’re absolutely perfect.” He caresses my butt again. “I can’t get enough.”
I kiss his chest, and then his pec, and then his shoulder, my hands carving circles around his broad back and shoulders. “I think you’ve just gotten started, Jesse,” I say. “I know I’m self-conscious, and I know it’s annoying. It’ll t
ake time for me to work past it. Time, and probably a lot of compliments I’ll have trouble believing.”
He grinds his erection against me. “Does this feel like a compliment to you?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, grinning as I kiss his neck under his beard line. “There’re too many layers of clothing between me and you to be sure.”
“An easily rectified situation,” he says.
I unfasten his button and lower the zipper again, and his erection bulges free. This time, I push his jeans down over his butt. He steps out of them, kicks them aside, and I cup the hard roundness of his butt, over the tight gray cotton of his boxer briefs. I linger there, enjoying the feel of it, the hardness of it. And then I bring my hands between us and cup his erection.
“Feeling the compliment now?” Jesse asks. “Getting to spend time with you, getting to look at you, getting to put my hands on your incredible body…you do that to me. You make me so hard it hurts.”
“I think I’m starting to feel the compliment,” I say, caressing his length over his underwear. “But I think I may need to feel more of it to be absolutely sure.”
He laughs, capturing both of my hands in one of his. “Not so fast,” he says. “I have something else in mind, first.”
“Something…else?” I ask, my voice cracking a little.
He doesn’t answer. At least, not with words. Still pinioning my hands together, he reaches around behind me and unzips my dress. Keeping hold of my hands, he nudges the dress straps down, letting the dress sag a little lower. Instead of letting me go so the dress falls off, he transfers his grip on one wrist to his other hand, slides his fingertips up my arm, captures the other strap and drags it down. I’m breathless and helpless to do anything except comply as he guides my arm out of the loop of the strap, and then repeats this on the other side. The dress is tight enough that it won’t fall off on its own, requiring a little…help, to come off. Again, Jesse deviates from my expectations by leaving the dress on. It’s sagging, drooping, but catching around the bell of my hips. He still has a firm grip on both of my hands, refusing to let them go, retaining utter control over me.
He raises my hands over my head, transfers both into one of his and, with a brief, intense locking of eyes, presses his lips to my sternum, just above the valley of my cleavage. And then downward, to the slope of one breast. Slowly, with delicate gentility, his beard silky and scratchy at once against my skin, he kisses me, and then moves to the other breast. Down, kissing closer and closer to the edge of bra and the neckline. Back upward, then, up to my sternum, to the base of my throat. I gasp, and tilt my head back, and he accepts my offering, kissing up my throat to the underside of my chin, and then around to underneath my earlobe, behind my ear, then the shell of it, his breath hot on my flesh. I shiver, and a ghost of a whimper escapes me as he brings his lips to my cheekbone, the corner of my lips. My mouth opens, and I eagerly meet his kiss.
He starts the kiss slowly, this time, gradually building the intensity of it, feeding my hunger for his tongue on mine and his breath and his lips until I’m ravenous and greedy, and then, as our kiss crescendos in a clash of mouths and moans, he uses his free hand—up until now clinging to the small of my back to press me against him into the kiss—to grasp a handful of my dress and tug.
The scarlet fabric pools on the floor around my feet, and my heart slams in my chest—I haven’t stood in nothing but undergarments in front of any man for so long—and especially not one like Jesse. It’s a thrill, and utterly terrifying. I know he finds me attractive—I don’t doubt that. It’s my own fears and insecurities at play, and I argue them, combat them, try to hold on to the desire and the need and the wild abandon, cling to the ever-fleeting confidence to stand as I am and let Jesse look without flinching from his gaze.
And indeed, he releases me and steps back three paces.
It requires an effort of will—my nerves crashing and fear slamming in my blood and in my gut, doubts preying on me—to stand tall, shoulders back, head up, as he gazes at me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Is that what you were wearing when you flashed me as I was backing out the other day?
I nod. “Yes.”
He rakes his hand through his hair. “Perfect.”
I offer a hesitant, shy smile. “Better be careful, Jesse. You keep saying that, I might just start believing it.” I indicate his body with a sweep of my finger. “You’re pretty damn perfect yourself, you know.”
He steps toward me in a predatory swagger, mouth curling up in a hot grin. “Good. Then I’ll say it every time I look at you until you do. Because you are. You’re perfect.” His hands slide over the small of my back, trace the underside of my bra strap, and follow the circle of my thong’s waistband. “But you’d be even more perfect if we took these off.”
Oh god, oh god. I swallow hard, fighting desperately for the confidence to let him strip me naked, right here, in the brightly lit kitchen, with open windows all around.
The last several times I was naked with a man, the lights were off, the blinds were closed, and the entire process lasted less than five minutes from start to finish, leaving me vulnerable and frustrated and alone as he rolled over and went to sleep. Last several times? Try every time for several years. I don’t remember the last time I stood confident in my nudity for a man.
He senses something. “You okay?”
I nod, but have to blink and swallow and work past the lump of fear and doubt. “Just…nervous.”
He pulls me against him, his palms on my back. “Don’t lie to me, Imogen.”
“Fine. I’m terrified.” I meet his gaze, my eyes stinging. “I want this—I want you. I want everything—that hasn’t changed in the slightest. I want it all more than ever. But…”
“What do you need?” he asks.
“Can we go to your room? And maybe…turn the lights off?”
He frowns. “Imogen…Jesus. That bastard really did a number on you, didn’t he?” He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you hide. I’m not letting you give doubt and fear the win.”
“Easier said than done. When things are hot and heavy and I don’t have time to think, I’m fine,” I tell him, allowing brutal honesty to emerge. “And I have moments where I feel bold and beautiful and even sexy. But then other times, I just…I doubt myself. I don’t doubt that you’re attracted to me, or even that you think I’m perfect, somehow. It’s not you I doubt, it’s me. It’s hard to know who I am, now. After everything that’s happened, I’m not the woman I was. I’m someone else, and I don’t know who that is. I want to be someone bold and strong, I want to be confident and I want to take what I want. But it’s hard. I’m trying, but it’s so hard. And you’re so effortlessly cool and handsome and confident and strong, and you say such incredible things, and the way you touch me is magical. And I just…it’s all so mixed up.”
He cups my face and tilts it up. “Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Show me the photo you sent me.”
My purse is on the counter beside his phone, keys, and wallet—I don’t even remember bringing it in or putting it down, but there it is. I get my phone and bring up the photo. On either side of it in the photo feed are some of the other photos I took that I didn’t delete and didn’t send.
I hand him the phone. “You can swipe both ways. There are a couple others I didn’t send you. They’re unedited and not super great, but—”
He touches my lips with a finger to shut me up, and I’m thankful, because I’m nervous letting him see those, and I would have kept babbling. He swipes through the photos, taking time to carefully scrutinize each one. He shows me the screen: it’s one of the ones I didn’t send, but nearly did. I’m on my back, left arm curled under and around my breasts to squeeze them together and prop them up, with the phone held up and out to the side to capture almost all of my body—my legs are crossed at the thighs and my hips are twisted away to shield my core from the camera. The
only reason I didn’t send that one was because the angle of my turned-aside thigh reveals an unflattering amount of stretch marks and cellulite.
“Why the hell didn’t you send me this?” he demands. It’s almost comical how legitimately offended he sounds.
I gesture at the offending area on the photograph. “Because of this.”
He snorts in derision, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”
I frown. “I can’t change how I feel about myself just by wanting to, Jesse.”
He backs away from me. “Stand there, just like that.”
“What are you doing?” I demand, reaching for my phone.
He holds it up, pointing at me with the other hand. “Stand there like you were. Please?”
Reluctantly, I comply, crossing one arm under my breasts, the other reaching up to toy with a lock of my hair. One foot is crossed over the other, my sparkly gold heels still on, and I’m leaning a hip against the edge of the counter. He snaps a few photos, and then glances at me again.
“Now, turn around. Please.”
I panic. “No, no. Jesse—come on.”
He just grins. “I’m proving a point. If you don’t like the photos, you delete them.”
I sigh shakily and then, with a nervous duck of my head, I turn around. “Take your picture and be done.”
He laughs. “Oh no, not so fast. Stand upright, and look at me over your shoulder.”
In order to do so, I have to shift my weight to one side, popping my hip out. But what do I do with my hands?
Jesse has the answer. “Put your middle fingers along the creases of the underside of your butt, like you’re trying to lift it up. You’re framing it, sort of.”
I snort. “You’ve done this before, sleazeball.”
He chortles. “No, I haven’t actually. Swear to god.” He winks at me. “I just have a great subject in this case, so it makes it easy.”
I do what he says, and as he snaps a photo, I find myself adjusting the pose a little, flexing my buttocks and actually lifting them a little, tossing my hair just so, and actually smiling at him as he snaps another few photos.