Hammered

by Jasinda Wilder

  Jesse: Hey, why pay for something if I can easily find it for free? I’m not promising anything, but I’ll swing by the job and look. Either way, I’ll get you fixed up ASAP.

  Me: You’re the best.

  Jesse: Don’t forget you said that when you’re trying to come up with ways to thank me. My previously stated methods of acceptable thanks still apply. ;-)

  I laugh out loud at that, because, it being a day off with nowhere to go, I’m in my pajamas. I decide to “thank” him a little right away.

  I stand in front of my full-length mirror in my bedroom and take a full-body selfie, making sure to twist and lift and work all the magic for the best pose—showing off cleavage and thigh and making my waist look smaller than it is.

  I leave it unedited, and send it to him with a caption: here’s a little down payment on my thank you. :-*

  I second-guess the kissing-face emoticon the moment I send it, but it’s too late to take it back.

  He texts back instantly: Have mercy!

  Me: fine. Here’s a little extra…mercy.

  I face the mirror again and tug the neck of the shirt down a little, showing a bit more cleavage, snap a photo, and send it.

  Jesse: I meant that as an epithet, but I’ll take the extra mercy. The only problem is now I’m installing cabinet hardware with a hard-on, which I can’t very well just disappear to take care of, if you know what I mean.

  Me: Poor Jesse. Should I apologize?

  Jesse: Hell no. Just saying. That’s what you do to me.

  Me: It’s not even that hot. Just a little tugging on the shirt.

  Jesse: It doesn’t take much where you’re concerned. I have to go, though. James is getting pissy that I’m texting instead of working. He’s a real slave driver. I’ll let you know what I come up with regarding the sink.

  Me: Okay, thanks. See you soon?

  Jesse: Not soon enough, but yeah.

  Me: You’re sweet.

  Jesse: and you’re hot. GTG. Bye for now.

  I’m grinning like a fool, and vibrating with excitement. And trepidation. But mostly excitement.

  I spend the rest of the day cleaning house, mowing the backyard, and weeding the beds.

  Once I’m done with my chores, I decide to sun myself a little in the backyard and do some reading, so I fix myself a little drink—some red wine mixed with soda water—and stretch out on my lounge chair. I’m only out there a few minutes when I figure, what the hell, may as well get some real sun. So I wiggle out of my shorts and peel my tank off, and enjoy some naked rays—with proper sunblock, of course, because skin cancer would suck, and so do sunburns. I flip to my stomach after an hour or two, and then, simply because I’m so relaxed, I end up falling asleep.

  I’m startled awake by the sound of my front door opening, and Jesse’s voice calling a hello.

  I wriggle back into my shorts and tank top in record time, and I’m still tugging the shirt down when he appears in my kitchen, carrying a huge sink in his arms. He glances through the window and sees me, catching me just as I finish rolling the tank down over my breasts, and his eyes go wide. He sets the sink down and sidles outside. I remain on the lounge chair, trying to stay calm.

  “Hey, you,” he says, grinning. “Did I interrupt something?”

  I don’t know how to respond. “I…um. No. I was just…sunbathing.”

  His smirk is knowing. “Making use of that privacy fence, huh?”

  I stand up and meet his gaze. “Yes, Jesse, I was sunbathing in the nude. I actually fell asleep, so you startled me.”

  “I did knock like, twenty times,” he says. “And you know, next time you don’t have to be quite so quick to get dressed.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  He nods, not a trace of humor on his face. “Sure as hell would. Those stupid pink heart stickers are driving me crazy.”

  I laugh. “I wasn’t quite daring enough to do it without them.”

  “I get it. But I’m going crazy not knowing what’s beneath them.”

  I snort. “Nipples, Jesse. Just nipples. Seen one pair, you’ve seen them all.”

  “I know that, intellectually.” He steps a little closer, and the items in question tighten, harden—a fact his gaze doesn’t miss. “That doesn’t change the fact that I desperately want to see yours.” His smirk shifts into a full-on smolder. “Or better yet, taste them.”

  I clench my thighs together and fight the urge to moan. “Taste…them?”

  He nods, his voice dropping to a whisper so low and intimate I have to strain to hear him, have to lean into him. “Taste them. Lick them all over. Kiss them, rub them against my face, devour them until you’re begging me to stop.”

  “That’s stupid,” I breathe.

  “Which part?”

  “The part where you think I’d beg you to stop.” I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. “I’d beg, but not for you to stop.”

  “You change your mind about me, then?”

  “It was never about that, Jesse. Not entirely, at least.”

  He’s staring down at me, his eyes firmly on mine rather than the generous view he certainly would have down my shirt, from that angle. “Last time we saw each other, you shut things down pretty firmly. Now you’re singing the opposite tune.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been kind of back and forth about things.” I’m not going to apologize for it, and I don’t.

  He just lets the silence between us breathe for a moment, and then backs away. “Want to see your new sink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He heads into the kitchen, and I gasp at the sink he’s brought. It’s huge, two deep tubs, made of spotless porcelain. On the floor next to it was a box with a photograph of an antique-style double-knob, high-arch faucet.

  I crouch and stroke the porcelain. “It’s lovely, Jesse. Absolutely perfect. Exactly what I’ve always pictured.” I glance up at my current sink, which is significantly smaller than this one. “But will it fit?”

  “What did I tell you about my skill at fitting big things into small spaces?” he says with a lopsided grin.

  I blush. “Jesse!”

  He just laughs and whips out a tape measure, lays it across the sink lengthwise and widthwise, and then the space between the lower cabinets. “Like the windows, it’ll just fit. You’ll lose a few inches of counter space on either side, though.”

  “For a sink like this, I’ll happily trade the counter space.”

  He slaps the counter. “Well, I’ll get started. Shouldn’t be too labor intensive.”

  “I’m gonna get some dinner going,” I say, heart in my throat. “Um. Do you…want to stay? Have dinner with me?”

  “You know I do.” He wiggles his phone out. “And we’re in luck—James is up at his hunting cabin in Wisconsin, so there won’t be any emergencies from el jefe.”

  “Good, because it seems like every time we get a few minutes alone, your boss has an emergency.”

  He rolls his eyes. “No kidding. Who knew construction involved so many emergencies, huh?”

  “Right?”

  We each begin our work, him removing the old sink, and me putting together a meal. Fortunately, I have chicken thawed, so it’s a matter of pan-frying some breasts while water is on the boil for pasta, with some broccoli steaming.

  Jesse sniffs the air as he marks where to cut the countertop away. “You’re a really good cook, you know that?”

  “According to my ex-husband, I’m a utilitarian cook. I can do the basics pretty well, but—”

  “Your ex was a dick,” Jesse cuts in. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was a grade-A dick who clearly had no clue what a treasure he had in you.”

  “Thank you for that,” I say, focusing on dicing the chicken.

  When that’s done and the pasta has been boiled and the broccoli steamed, I mix it all together in a casserole dish, mix in a few cans of cream of chicken, cover it, and put it in the preheated oven to bake.


  I wash my hands, and then lean against the counter. “I’m going to go up and rinse off before we eat. I’m all greasy from sunblock.”

  “Can I help?” he says, grinning, “I’m great at rinsing.”

  I’m sorely tempted to say yes, but I don’t. “I think I can manage on my own.”

  He snaps his fingers. “Damn. Way to ruin all my hopes and dreams.”

  “Ruined? Or delayed?” I tease, sashaying toward the hallway.

  He twirls his chalk marker between his fingers. “The way I’m feeling right now, they’re the same thing.”

  I have no answer for that—at least not one that doesn’t involve jumping his beautiful bones right there in the kitchen. So I just shoot him a smile over my shoulder as I head for the stairs. In my room, I strip out of my clothes and rinse off quickly, taking a few extra minutes to make sure everything down south is trimmed and that my legs are smooth. What to wear is a conundrum, though. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, so it can’t be fancy, but I want to look nice, so it can’t be grubby, either.

  I end up wearing a blue and white silk romper, barefoot, no jewelry, minimal makeup, and just a spritz of perfume. I twist my hair up in a simple chignon with a few loose wisps draped casually down my cheeks. Underneath the romper, I’m wearing the same red lace set of lingerie that had almost caused the wreck, because while I’m not positive anything is going to happen tonight, I want to be ready if it does.

  Feeling pretty and presentable, I head downstairs. Jesse is just then setting the new faucet into the sink, then leaning in underneath it to tighten it into place. My timer beeps, letting me know it’s time to add the cheese. I take off the foil, add a thick layer of cheddar, reset the timer for another three minutes, and then turn to find Jesse leaning back against the finished sink, his eyes on me in that blatant, admiring way he has.

  “You look incredible.”

  I duck my head at his compliment. “Thanks.”

  “If I’d known you’d dress up like that, I’d have brought a button-down and nicer jeans.” He flips his wrench in his hand, and then holsters it in his tool belt, which he unbuckles and removes.

  I laugh. “I’m not dressed up, I’m just not in pajamas anymore.”

  “Hey, those pajamas are—”

  “The cat’s pajamas?” I suggest, grinning.

  “Okay, grandma. No, I was going to say they’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, but then, that wouldn’t be fair to what you’re wearing now.”

  “You like the romper, huh?”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “I like beer and pretzels and ESPN sports highlights—I love that romper.”

  I smile happily. “Well…I’m glad you like it.”

  Why does this feel awkward, all of a sudden?

  Jesse is just staring at me, looking me up and down, a tiny, private grin on his face.

  “What?” I ask, self-conscious under his scrutiny.

  “Nothing. I just can’t help staring at you.” He sets his tool belt on the counter, and turns back to me. “Is it making you uncomfortable?”

  I nod. “A little.”

  “Sorry, you’re just gorgeous, and I’m not great with self-restraint.”

  “You’re really laying it on thick tonight, Mr. O’Neill.”

  He shrugs. “I just calls ’em like I sees ’em.” He gestures at the sink. “So, what do you think?”

  I move over next to him, standing in front of the sink. “It’s…it’s perfect, Jesse.”

  He traces the side of the sink with a fingertip. “It’s an actual antique, you know. Over a hundred years old, original to the farmhouse. The owners were happy to see it go to someone who would appreciate it. If I hadn’t taken it they were going to see about selling it to an antiques dealer, but while it’s beautiful and in perfect condition, it’s not like they’d have gotten a lot for it. Better this way.” He taps the countertops, which are laminate made to look like marble, a cheap, chintzy effect. “All you need in here now is to replace these countertops, paint the cabinets white, and put in glass-front doors.”

  “And rip out the floor and put in new tile,” I point out.

  He shrugs, laughing. “Yeah, that too. Other than that, not much!”

  “One step at a time,” I say. “Thank you for the sink, Jesse. You have to let me at least pay you for your time.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Dinner with you is payment enough.” He taps the countertop again. “I think some nice, rich, dark-stained butcher blocks would work well in here. I can pick some up fairly reasonably. You don’t have, like, acres of counter to do so you’re not looking at a huge expense. And honestly, stripping and painting the cabinets is something you could do yourself easily on a weekend afternoon.”

  “I wouldn’t know how to strip them, but painting I can do.”

  “Well, maybe I can come over some Saturday and we can do it together.”

  I gaze up at him. “Why are you so willing to do all this work for me?”

  He lifts one big shoulder. “It’s work I enjoy doing, for one thing. I get a great sense of accomplishment and pride from seeing something improved through my efforts. For another thing, I like you, and I like being around you, so doing something I enjoy around a woman I like? It doesn’t feel like work.”

  The oven timer dings, and I pull out the casserole. I point at a cabinet. “The plates are in there and the forks are in the drawer behind you.”

  He retrieves the silverware and plates, and while I’m dishing up the food he takes a bottle of red wine from the little rack on the counter next to my fridge, opens it, and pours us each a glass, and then helps me carry everything outside to my table.

  Our meal together is slow, easy, and leisurely. Comfortable. We talk about our families—his father passed away from a stroke when he was in high school, and his mom is a retired teacher living in an all-inclusive assisted living retirement community in Arizona. He has one younger brother, a career Marine Corps officer stationed in Okinawa. I tell him about growing up an only child of older parents—I was born when my father was fifty and my mom forty-five. I was an unexpected accident, something they were very clear about my whole life. We trade high school embarrassment stories, first crushes, college party stories, bad trips, bad dates, and everything in between. The wine flowed—perhaps a little too freely, but I’m enjoying myself more than any date in recent memory. At some point there’s a second bottle opened, and we’re sitting side by side in my lounge chairs, watching for the few stars visible in the Chicago suburbs.

  The lounge chairs are close, and we’re sitting facing each other, our knees brushing. Every once in awhile, one of us will gesture as we talk, and our hands will touch, or his fingers will rest, briefly, on my knee. I’m feeling good, happy, light, loose—a little buzzed, maybe. And I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of his lips. I remember vividly the feel of them on mine, and I want that again. I remember the way his hands felt on my hips, and clutching my buttocks. I remember the way the hard ridge of his erection pressed against me through his jeans.

  Will he kiss me? What’s he waiting for?

  I want what comes after kissing.

  I want the rush of adrenaline; I want hands tearing at clothes, lips stuttering across bare skin, breath on breath. I want to let my desperation and hunger go free. I want to surrender to him. I want to feel small and delicate beneath him. I want to feel wanted, desired, needed.

  Hours have passed since dinner—are we are on our third bottle? I can’t remember.

  I’m getting impatient.

  Jesse gets up, excuses himself to use the bathroom, and I follow him inside. I’m a little unsteady, a little dizzy.

  I use the bathroom after Jesse, and take a moment to fix my hair and plump up my cleavage.

  When I come out, Jesse is drinking a glass of water, sitting on my couch in my living room, looking through my coffee table book of Ansel Adams photography. He looks up when I come out, and his eyes darken with desire.

&
nbsp; That look in his eyes turns me to mush, makes my thighs tremble.

  I sit beside him, take the glass of water from him, drink some, and put it down. I’m angled into him, knees against his thighs. He’s so close, so big, so strong and handsome, and my lips tingle in anticipation.

  I wait—a beat, two, three.

  Is he not going to kiss me?

  Fuck it.

  I lean against him, wrap my hand around the back of his head and cup his cheek with the other hand and press my lips to his. He rumbles low in his chest, and his hands slide around my waist. For a moment, he just holds me like that, kissing me back—and then he lifts me onto his lap. I straddle him, feeling his erection through his jeans, his hands scraping up the front of my thighs from knees to hips and then he spans my hips with his hands and pulls me closer. I’m levered over him, bent over to kiss him, gasping against his tongue, tasting him, hands playing in his hair.

  I grind against him, writhing my hips, telling him silently what I want and how much I want it.

  Except, instead of taking the hint, he breaks the kiss, panting.

  I frown down at him, licking the taste of him off my lips. “Wha—why did you stop?”

  He rests his head against my chest, his forehead just beneath my chin. “We’ve had a lot of wine, Imogen.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I’m no lightweight, but I’m feeling it,” he says, his voice heavy and slow. “And I know you are, too.”

  “Maybe a little,” I admit, my chest tight with foreboding. “So what, though? If we’re both in the same place and we both want this, what’s the problem?”

  He captures my wrists in one hand, holds them against his chest, and uses his other hand to brush a tendril of my hair away from my eyes. “If we’d already slept together, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. Half-drunk sex can be awesome, but—I don’t want our first time together to be half-drunk.”

  “Why not?” I whisper, rejection stinging hard.

  “Because I want you to go into it totally sober, totally in control, absolutely feeling and knowing everything.” He tries to meet my eyes, but I won’t let him.