Sledgehammer (Hard To Love Book 2)

by P. Dangelico

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mutter. “I take it you won’t be giving me pube fleas.”

  “Not a chance.”

  My fingers dig through his thick, soft hair and close around a fist full. He moans and thrusts his hips, the pleasure edged with a touch of pain. I tear my lips away and place a hand on his chest to stall him from plundering my mouth again. “I have an amendment to our agreement.”

  “Which is?” There’s wariness in his voice. He’s scared I might back out. Little does he know. Nothing, and I mean nothing could stop this from happening.

  “There will be shagging, banging, boning, even humping. There will, however, be no lovemaking. We good?”

  His face stills. The excitement he was wearing a minute ago dims. His eyes search mine but I don’t let him in. I keep my thoughts to myself. Because I’m scared he’ll see how much I want this, how much I want him in particular. I can’t let this be more than a physical thing. Anything more than that and it will destroy me for good. Finito. Annihilation complete. Everything before him was junior league in comparison, and I can’t let him have that kind of power over me.

  He gives it a minute of thought before acquiescing with a curt nod. Not very convincing, but I’m too worked up to care at this point. “Good. Are you hydrated? Because I have a lot of time to make up for and I can’t have you fainting on me.”

  His smile is back in full force. Without further delay, he tears me away from the wall and kicks open the door to his bedroom. He drops me on the bed, and I fall back with a sigh of relief. I thought this day would never come.

  Grabbing the waist of my skinny jeans, he rips them down to my ankles without even bothering to unbutton them.

  “Ouuuch.” My nice guy likes it rough? Didn’t see that coming. I check for burn marks down my thighs with a stupid smile on my face.

  “Man up, Jones.” His voice is deeper than usual. Hearing it makes goose bumps break out over my skin. My Gazelles are next. He tosses one by one over his shoulders.

  “Okay, but––you know I’m not really a man, right?” I say giggling like a loon.

  “Thank fuck for that,” he says, yanking my jeans off for good. “Otherwise I’d have to go gay for you.”

  My giggles come to an abrupt stop. Pain and pleasure expand in my chest. Eyes watering, I pick my head up off the pillow and stare at the gorgeous specimen kneeling between my thighs. Hair all mussed, lips swollen, and sexier than any one man has a right to be.

  “Fancy––”

  At the wobble in my voice, he looks up. “Yeah?”

  As he watches me his soft lips descend onto the sensitive skin on the inside of my knee. Kiss after delicate kiss the tension grows. My lady parts throb, desperate for some attention as the kisses travel north.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  He takes my face in one piece at a time. My lips, my eyes, my clenched jaw. A wolfish grin spreads across his face. “It’s true. Now shut up so I can bone you properly.” He cups me possessively and my eyes do a full roll to the back of my head while my head drops back onto the mattress.

  Tender moment over, he gets back to work, taking his time feasting on the insides of my thighs while my prone form tenses in eagerness for what’s to come. When he reaches my panties, strong fingertips curl over the edge of my boy shorts and pause. Curiosity forces my head up. Almost an impossible task but I manage. I find him looking up at me with a heated gaze that could very well send me up in flames all by itself.

  “This––” he says. Extending his long blunt index finger, he taps me twice on my poor neglected clit and I nearly shoot off the bed. “Belongs to me now.”

  “Oh Gawd,” I half screech, half pant.

  He drags my underwear off slowly. Anticipation is a heartless bitch. I’m squirming from it. A moment later his mouth is finally on me, hot, direct. No messing around, he knows what he’s doing.

  For a second this bothers me. Only for a second though because he swipes his tongue over my sweet spot and follows that up by sucking on it. My body practically levitates off the bed. I’m on the brink of an O and we’ve barely started.

  Either I have a crappy memory, or sex has never ever been this good ever for anyone ever…ever. And we haven’t gotten to the main attraction.

  He lifts his head while his arms pin my spread thighs to the bed. “This beautiful pussy is all mine to lick, suck, and fuck––”

  My eyes slam open. ‘Scuse me? My nice guy is a dirty talker?

  “Whenever I feel like it. And I’m gonna feel like it a lot.”

  Holy shit, my nice guy is a dirty talker!

  I can’t wait another minute. Not a second longer. I have been drowning in lust for this man for months. They say that the word hysteria derives from some sketchy history of it being specific to women, from the Latin root meaning “of the womb”. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. My womb is crazy for him.

  “Ethan, I need you.” Begging is not beneath me. I would happily crawl over a bed of hot coals if he were to ask. At the sound of his name something sparks. Some of the blatant lust on his face fades, changing to something softer, something affectionate. He gets up, never once breaking eye contact.

  “Get naked.”

  The bossy type is not my jam. However, by the way my body is responding, getting even more aroused, I approve. Then again, I’m pretty certain it’s the man doing the bossing.

  In one fell swoop, I rip my t-shirt and bra off. He’s seen the goods already, or rather lack of goods. No need to be shy. And in return I watch him slowly unbuttons his white dress shirt. I’ve never seen anything sexier––never. I can’t even imagine anything sexier than Ethan standing with his legs slightly spread apart, gray slacks tenting from the massive hard-on he’s showing off, look of utter hunger on his face––and I have a very vivid imagination.

  His burning gaze turns my pale skin pink. His jaw pulses as he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and shucks it off, unzips. Pants gapping open, I can see his erection twitching as I stare at it, a wet spot on his boxers. He pushes his pants down and drags his underwear along with them.

  Sigh. Double sigh with a back flip.

  There are no words. None. I didn’t exactly get a good look last time I saw him in all his naked glory. You know, with him bleeding all over the place. But I am looking my fill now.

  “Like what you see?” he murmurs as he opens his bedside table drawer and pulls out a condom. He watches me as he rips it open with his teeth and suits up.

  “Like?” I rasp, my throat bone dry. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  His mouth hooks up. Thank God I’m lying down because if I was standing right now, I’d faceplant.

  “Good,” he says, moving towards me. He crawls up the bed, and over me. “Because I love what I see.”

  As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his smile falters, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes replaced by something significantly more serious. I see more than lust and need, more than a physical attraction that will not quit. I see everything, and he lets me.

  Panic starts to overshadow the lust. This is about sex! Just scratching an itch! I remind myself. He must’ve sensed my flight instinct kicking in because he kisses me. So soft and sweet. The panic turns into unbridled excitement of the earth shaking sex I’m about to have. With his face above mine and his hands bracketing my head, he holds his upper body suspended while his lower body settles between my thighs. His hot length presses against me, sliding. I moan and whimper and struggle for more. I need to feel him over every square inch of my skin. I need to feel the weight and strength of him pushing me into the mattress.

  I cup his face and bring it closer, our lips a breadth away. “Stop teasing me.”

  “So impatient,” he murmurs in a voice that speaks to the basest part of me.

  Bring it on, my mind screams, bring it all on. And he does. He gives me what I need. His tongue slips into my mouth and makes love to mine. He cups my breast and rubs his calloused
thumbs over my sensitive nipples and I arch closer––the calluses only I know he gets from pounding away at that sheetrock. Rocking his hips, he swallows my moans. We’ve been dancing around this for far too long, the slow burning foreplay serves as tinder to the fire inherently burning between us––no app necessary.

  On the next rock, he pushes inside of me with a force that makes me gasp and dig my short nails into his back muscles. His fingers threaded in my hair, he tugs on it to look at my face. “You okay, baby?”

  Baby? Oh God, I actually like that. I give him a short nod and he rolls his hips again. And just like that I’m on the verge of coming.

  “You feel so good, Amber. Nothing has ever felt as good.”

  One big hand grips the back of my knee and hikes my leg up, hooking it around his waist, sinking even deeper into me, sinking all the way to the root. His grip on my hair tightens possessively and the prickle of my scalp translates into a throb between my thighs.

  My nice guy…a hair puller. I’m grinning from ear to ear. This man is full of surprises.

  Sensing my amusement, he looks at me. “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m happy. And I want you.” His hips have mine pinned down. “Move.”

  I cup his ass and squeeze. His eye lids drop, gaze filled with lust.

  “I want you too. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

  “Well then stop talking and get to work.”

  He smoothly pulls his hips out and slams into me. I cry out and dig my fingers into his ass muscles. “It’s been a while so this may be quick. But it’s just the start, baby,” he murmurs, his pace as steady as his words. He swivels his hips, tests the angle until I gasp. His teeth scrape my neck. The pads of his rough fingertips play with my nipple while he drives into me. The pleasure builds quickly. Almost too quickly, I need it to last. As soon as he senses my impending O he picks up the pace.

  Uncorked, my orgasm explodes through me. But Ethan doesn’t stop. He keeps driving, prolonging my pleasure. His breath tickles my ear as he murmurs words I can’t make out. Words of encouragement, I think. I am fighting not to lose myself in this feeling of completion, of wholeness of body and spirit. Sweat beads on his forehead and he bites his bottom lip, staving off his own release for my benefit.

  “Ethan,” I whisper. That’s all it takes for him to come, for his back muscles to turn to stone under my hands, for his eyes to slam shut as he savors every minute of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The touching doesn’t let up for a minute. He’s mapping me with his hands. I went to bed with a sexual beast and woke up with Helen Keller––if Helen Keller were a six foot two gorgeous slab of man meat. Gripping my hips, he grinds against me.

  “You’re full of surprises.”

  He kisses my neck and murmurs, “Hmm, how?” on my skin.

  “Why tonight? What happened?”

  A weighty pause follows.

  “I’m so damn tired of fighting it…aren’t you?” The last few words are tentative, vulnerable.

  “Yeah, I am. But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “We’ll be careful.”

  “Living dangerously, counselor. I might have to revoke your Mr. Perfect card.”

  “Mr. Perfect?” he parrots. “Hardly. Far from it, in fact.”

  I turn onto my back and peer up at him. “Right.”

  His eyes roam over my face while his remains inscrutable. “But I wouldn’t mind being perfect for you,” he says quietly with a half-smile that’s tentative and shy and makes my insides fuzzy, makes me want to be perfect for him. And that is not what this is about.

  His gaze sharpens on me. “I want to show you something.”

  Before I can respond, he’s out of bed and walking naked to his dresser and holy moly is the view spectacular. A minute later he’s back, walking toward me all easy grace, his heavy erection bobbing with every step he takes, the dark hair surrounding it neat and tidy––of course. Time for an obligatory eye roll.

  “I’ve seen it and I approve.”

  A slow grin spreads across his face. “I mean these,” he says, motioning to the stack of pictures in his hand.

  Pictures? Who gives a crap about pictures when I have an interactive feast for the senses before me. He slides back into bed, and my face turns into sad Emoji. Jeez, I’m worse than a kid with a new toy.

  He sidles up next to me and wraps his muscular arm around my neck––touching me, needing the connection as much as I do.

  The pictures he hands me look old, weathered on the edges. They’ve been handled a lot. I sit up, to get a better look, and Ethan’s hand spontaneously falls on my lower back. The warmth radiating from his palm sinks all the way to my bones. A lazy warmth spreads through me. It feels so bloody good my eyelids get droopy. There’s only one thing that feels better and that’s his magic d…

  “Amber?”

  “Yeah,” I say, shaking off the daze.

  My interest perks up at the first picture. A healthy looking boy with a very deep tan and an amazing grin peers back at me. Around eleven or twelve, he’s already incredibly handsome. He’s also holding up a fish half the size of his torso, looks quite proud of himself.

  “Very cute.” I trace the boy’s features with my fingertip. “I see promise of perfection in your smile. Where was this taken?” My question is met by silence, compelling me to look over my shoulder. My smile slips when I realize the one Ethan is wearing is fixed in place, held up by sheer force of will.

  “Sun Valley, Idaho. And that’s not me.” Sitting up, he gently takes the picture. “That’s Jake.” Pointing at the figure in the corner, he says, “And that’s me.”

  In the background, a skinny kid sits on a rock. He’s wearing a crooked baseball cap, glasses, and he’s holding a book. He also looks incredibly sad. “We took that trip shortly after the cancer went into remission…the first time.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This is not the time to be stingy with the fucks. There’s suddenly an elephant sitting on my chest. An overwhelming urge to cry for that little boy hunched over with his chin resting on his hand takes hold of me.

  “I was a late bloomer.”

  Ethan pulls the next picture out and it’s the same little boy standing next to the much huskier one, an enormous Christmas tree behind them. Jake is smiling, his arm hanging around Ethan’s neck. Ethan, however, is not smiling. The sad little duckling became a swan.

  I glance up at him and the brief smile he gives me doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not freaking cry.

  He’s trying to make me feel better. Me. Here I am, staring at the source of the most profound pain a child can experience and he’s trying to comfort me.

  My eyes flicker away from his, back to the pictures. I’m barely holding it together, and if I look at him I will lose it.

  He pulls the third picture out and my eyes go straight to the gorgeous woman standing between the two boys. She has a colorful scarf wrapped around her head, and although she’s wearing a huge smile that’s almost a carbon copy of Ethan’s, she’s so tall and thin it looks like a light breeze could push her over.

  “So beautiful. You look like her.” My voice sounds far away. I can barely make it out I’m so overwhelmed with emotion. “Do you carry these on you? They look really worn.”

  His long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones as he looks at the pictures. “Touching the paper somehow…” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I get it. For some strange reason I understand him. It seems as if we’ve been in lockstep since the day we met. Never pushing each other too far away, or pulling each other too close––dancing around this inevitable outcome since the start.

  “Come back to me, Jones.”

  I look up into his open face and see only the tiniest glimmer of that pale skinny kid, the one that grew into such an amazing man. Because he is amazing. Kind, smart, thoughtful, generous. Basically he’s a unicorn. My unicorn. Wait, he’s not mine. He’s defi
nitely not mine.

  This is all kinds of terrible. I can’t be having these feelings for him. I’m leaving soon––with any luck. I’m taking my foot off the brake pedal and charging full steam ahead with my career. And so is he. There’s no place for ‘feelings’ in this arrangement.

  “Where’d you go? You looked like you were a million miles away.”

  It’s his smile that’s my undoing. This time it’s relaxed, guileless…happy.

  “You are.”

  “I’m what?” he asks, his voice quiet. Cupping my face, he traces my bottom lip with the rough pad of his thumb.

  “Perfect for me.”

  My stomach clenches, my pride screaming in outrage that I’ve handed him the weapon of my destruction, that I may have authored my own demise with that admission.

  His eyelashes flutter for the barest of seconds. When those almond shaped eyes find mine again, he’s wearing a frown. I’m about to pull away but he’s one step ahead, pinning me to the mattress with the weight of his body. He brings my arms up over my head, slides my hands open with his much larger ones and laces his fingers through mine. He’s holding my hands…I am toast. I am utter toast.

  His kiss is sweet, coaxing, as if he doesn’t want to scare me off. In a spell I kiss him back. He spends the rest of the night convincing me with his body just how perfect for me he is.

  “I’ve got fantastic news,” Marty announces as soon as I walk through the door of his office. He’s got an enormous pastrami sandwich between his meaty paws––and by the smell of it, with onions.

  Pinching my nose shut, I plop down in the arm chair across from him and put my kicks up on the desk. “Scorsese cast me as the lead of his next flick.”

  “I said fantastic, not fantasy.”

  Shrugging, I say, “A girl can dream.”

  “Forget the dream. The casting director for that time travel show you were crying about called.”

  Every hair on my body stands upright. “And? You’re killing me Marty!”

  “The sister of the lead is now available.” He takes a big bite.

  “The Carinne character, the bitchy one?” I query, sitting upright in the chair.