Hammered

by Jasinda Wilder

  “My god, Jesse. It’s amazing.” I turn to face him. “I can’t—I just can’t.”

  He grins. “You haven’t seen everything, yet,” he says, sounding excited. “Come on upstairs.”

  I follow him up, failing to restrain my gaze from his taut, hard butt as it wiggles and shifts up the stairs.

  How can he be so hot and so kind and generous? It should be impossible. I’d thought it was impossible.

  I stop halfway up the stairs, ripping my gaze away from his delectable ass, realizing something is different on the stairs.

  More light.

  Breeze flowing upward, through the open front door.

  I look upward. Jesse is leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs—next to him is another enormous casement window. The plus one. There was no window here, before, just blank wall.

  “This was wasted space, before,” he says. “It was just begging for a window, so I obliged.” He glances at me, looking and sounding nervous. “I know I should have asked before adding a whole new window like this, but…it’s just—I knew without a doubt that it would improve the light up here and the airflow overall. So I trusted my gut and hoped you wouldn’t hate it.”

  He just cut a hole in the side of my house—without asking or informing me first—and put a brand new window in.

  Theoretically I should be pissed. I barely know the man. I have no contract with him, no references to previous work besides the window he did in my kitchen. But god, this window works wonders on the stairs and the landing area in general. I move the rest of the way up the stairs and stand at the window—I can see most of the neighborhood from here. The airflow brings the temperature down, lets in light…god, it’s amazing. I think I’ve used that word too many times already, but…

  I shake my head. “Your gamble paid off, Jesse.” I smile at him. “I love it. Thank you.”

  He jerks his head toward the master bedroom. “Check out your room.”

  I enter my room, blinking at the staggering amount of light coming in. It feels like a whole new room.

  More tears.

  I can’t breathe, can’t speak. Who knew a person could get so emotional over some windows? But they just make me so happy.

  “How—how did you and Franco get all this done in an afternoon?” I ask. “I mean, I know you probably work fast, but this seems like a lot even for the two of you.”

  He just shrugs. “Eh…I called in some favors with the guys. And I actually got my start in construction installing windows back in high school, so it’s something I happen to be able to do pretty fast.”

  “You called in favors? For…me?” My voice breaks.

  He just smiles at me. “Sure did. But it’s how we work. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is to me, Jesse.” I look around at my room, and fight to get myself under control. “Good thing I didn’t have time to let my room get messy again, huh?”

  Jesse laughs. “Yeah, no bras or panties left out this time…sadly.”

  I chuckle. “It’s literally just underwear, Jesse. It doesn’t actually turn you on, does it? Seeing my bra or underwear?”

  He shrugs. “The garment itself, no. The mental image of you in it? Yeah, it sure as hell does.”

  “You’ve never seen me in my underwear.”

  He is silent a moment, chewing on his lower lip. “Yeah, well, I have a really good imagination.” His gaze is rife with promise. “And a whole lot of hope.”

  “Hope?”

  “That I’ll get to see you in your underwear.”

  “I am broke,” I whisper. “That could be your payment.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he growls.

  “Too late?” I breathe. “Why shouldn’t I tempt you? What if I want to? What if I want—”

  “Imogen,” he rumbles, interrupting me. “You want to start something with me, you won’t have to try very hard.”

  I do want to start something with him.

  Don’t I?

  A worm of doubt wiggles through my skull, though. Do I want to start something with him? So soon after my divorce?

  I push the thought away and gaze up at him. “What if I’m not really even trying, yet?”

  “What if I’m not either?”

  “You’re not?” I ask, my voice in a squeak. “You said you were hitting on me.”

  “I am,” Jesse murmurs, not breaking our gazes. “But I’m not seducing you yet.”

  “You won’t have to try very hard to do that.”

  At that moment his phone blares, a deafening foghorn sound that makes me just about jump out of my skin.

  “Sorry, that’s my ringer for James. He typically only calls me when it’s important or an emergency.” He answers the call. “What’s up, James?” He listens for a moment, responds with a growled, “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.” And then he hangs up without another word.

  “Duty calls, huh?” I ask, more disappointed than I should be that he’s leaving.

  “Yeah. Dr. Waverley and her husband—both of them—are at the project, and they have…concerns.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yeah. They weren’t happy about the flooded basement, understandably. So when we got it cleaned up and fixed, they decided to expand on their original plan, and because it was our guy that screwed up, we’re basically eating the cost difference.”

  “Sounds like this job is a pain in the butt,” I say.

  He shrugs. “They all are in one way or another. Good thing about the Waverleys is that they agree on everything, so it’s not a fight for every little detail. Those jobs are the worst. We’ve seen custom builds like this wreck marriages.”

  “I can imagine,” I say. “So, what do I owe you and Franco for all this?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “James will kill me and then fire me if I don’t charge you for my time at least.”

  “I wouldn’t let you do all this for free, Jesse. Your time and skill are valuable.”

  He grins. “I think so too, for the most part. But I like you a lot, and I don’t want you to think I’m saying or doing anything just for the money or the work.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Then you’re not suspicious enough,” he growls.

  “Probably true,” I say, thinking about the way Nicholas played me for months.

  He steps close to me. “Look, I gotta go. But I’ll drop by with an invoice once I figure out how little I can get away with charging you without pissing off my boss, best friend, and brother-in-law.” He grins. “The bastard is a stickler for little details like financial solvency and orderly accounting.”

  I laugh. “Silly James, getting caught up in such petty minutiae.”

  “I’ll see you later?” he says, making it a question.

  “I hope so,” I say, as he waves and heads down the stairs. “Jesse?” I call after him, and he stops halfway down, glancing up at me. “Thank you. From the bottom of my heart…thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure, Imogen,” he says, his voice warm and genuine and pleased.

  I watch him take his tools over to the truck as I stand in my new bedroom window.

  He tosses his tool belt on the passenger seat through the open window, sets his toolbox in the bed, and then bungee cords a tarp over the detritus in his truck bed. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turns over the engine, which kicks to life with a throaty diesel rumble. I watch him plug his phone in, scroll a moment, and then the grinding, thrashing, churning sound of the heavy metal music he likes so much drifts up to me at the window, partially muffled but still loud.

  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, thou
gh—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.

  Chapter 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, honestly, 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 h
e 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: