They’re crowded around Franco, who is hunched over a pinball machine; the boys are all shouting at him in what sounds like a mixture of insults and advice. As I close in, I can see why they’re all so excited—Franco is within a thousand points of the high score, set by JB, with the second highest score set by JON, which I assume is James Bod and Jesse O’Neill. As I watch, Franco passes the high score, and then taps out less than a hundred points past the high score.
“Boom, bitch!” Franco says, smacking the side of the machine, and then whirling to face James. “Beat you!” And then he dances over to face Jesse. “And you!”
James swigs from a bottle, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Oh ye of little faith. You know you can’t top the pinball master for long.”
Jesse snorts. “Okay, pinball master. The only reason my score is second highest is because Ryder’s clumsy ass spilled his beer on me. You know I’d have smashed that high score otherwise. I’ve been beating you in pinball since third grade.”
“You mean we’ve been going back and forth since third grade,” James shoots back.
“Sure, go ahead and think that. But let’s review the facts. Who still holds the high score on the Voltron machine at Electric Ed’s back by our old high school? That’d be me. Who holds the high score in the bar we went to in college? Oh, that’s right! That’d be me. I’ve been to both places recently, and I’m still on top, baby!”
I laugh, startling all of them. “Arguing about pinball game scores? At your ages?”
They turn away from the game and Franco chuckles. “You have no clue who you’re talking to, do you? To these two yokels, pinball isn’t just a game, it’s a religion.”
Jesse and James bump fists. “Pinball isn’t just a game,” Jesse reiterates, “it’s the ultimate test of focus, reflexes, and manual dexterity.”
When the laughter dies down, the handsome redhead in the group turns to me.
“Ryder,” he says, in a deep, silky voice. “You must be Imogen.”
“My fame precedes me, I see,” I joke. “Nice to meet you, Ryder. Hi guys, good to see you again.”
James and Franco I’ve both met, but Ryder I haven’t, yet. He’s a redhead, complete with pale skin and freckles. His hair is short on the sides and messy on top, with a full beard trimmed close, somewhere between too long for stubble and too short for a true beard. He’s just as good-looking as his three friends, and just as different in build; Ryder is the shortest of the four, only a few inches taller than me, but he’s impressively and scarily muscular. He has a calm, warm air to him, though, and his smile is bright and eager, and his grip as he shakes my hand is gentle.
“Your fame does indeed precede you,” Ryder says, laughing. “This butthead won’t shut up about you.” He finishes this with a jerk of his thumb at Jesse.
Who, I believe, just might be blushing under that bushy beard.
“I talked about her one time, dude. Once. Hardly counts as won’t shut up about her.” Jesse narrows his eyes at Ryder. “And you’re one to talk. The last girl you dated, you were all ‘Elizabeth this, and Elizabeth that’ for three months straight, until you realized she was batshit crazy and dumped her loony-ass.”
Ryder shrugs. “Loony, yes, but her ass was also tighter than a fuckin’—” he cuts off with an embarrassed grin at me. “Uh, I mean—she was…she had a…umm…”
“Hey, you’re a group of guys at your local place. No need to filter your conversation for my sake,” I say with a laugh. “Besides, it’s not like I’m unaware of how men talk.”
Jesse just guffaws, smacking Ryder on the back. “Tight ass or not, she was a nutjob.”
I drink a couple beers with the guys as we talk, and it’s surprisingly fun and easy to hang out with them. They had lots of funny stories about various construction jobs and I had a few stories of my own about the crazy stuff that can happen in the medical business. After a couple of hours, James and Ryder excuse themselves to go to the bathroom, and Franco heads outside to return a phone call, leaving Jesse and me alone. The music in the bar is loud enough to drown out the conversations around us, but not so loud that we have to shout to be heard.
I trace the rim of my glass with a fingertip. “So, about last night—”
Jesse holds up a hand. “Imogen, I know you’re probably—”
“Wait, wait, please—just hear me out first.” I cover his hand with mine. “I wanted to apologize for how I acted. I was a lot more drunk than I thought I was, and you were just being a gentleman and doing something amazing, and I was an ornery bitch to you. So, I’m sorry. And thank you. Thank you for being you, for taking care of me and being honorable and a gentleman even when I was being…well, the way I was.”
“No need to apologize, Imogen—I just don’t want you to think I didn’t want—”
I lean close and speak over him, keeping my voice low. “I have absolutely zero doubts about that, Jesse.”
“You seemed pretty pissed. I was worried you’d still be mad.”
“And I was worried I’d ruined things with my drunken idiocy. But to answer your question, the instant I woke up, my first thought was ‘oh shit, I’m hungover,’ and my second thought was, ‘oh shit, I really messed up with Jesse.’”
“So you understand why I stopped us?” he asks, his hands engulfing mine.
“I’m glad you did what you did, Jesse. I’m grateful. I was so horny I couldn’t stand it, and I wanted you so bad, and I just wasn’t thinking straight. After you left I stood up, and that’s when I discovered exactly how drunk I was.”
He breathes out sharply through his nostrils, jaw flexing. “Not taking you when you were offering yourself up to me like a gift-wrapped present was, very literally, the second hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Second hardest?”
He nods. “The first hardest is connected to that situation I don’t like talking about. It’s a major downer, and I’m a lot more interested in this conversation.”
“Then forget I asked.” I gaze up at him through my eyelashes, shifting my weight forward and squeezing my tits together with my arms as I lean toward him. “The only real difference between last night and tonight is that tonight I’m totally sober.”
“In that case, I just have two questions for you. One, do you work in the morning?”
I shake my head. “No. Well, not early, at least. I go in at eleven.”
“Good, because that leads me to my second question.” His thumb rubs circles against the back of my hand, and his eyes flick between my eyes and my cleavage. “You want to get out of here?”
Chapter 12
Jesse doesn’t even bother saying goodbye or making excuses to his friends—the moment I whisper, “Yes,” he takes me by the hand and hauls me faster than my heels will safely allow out of the bar to his truck. My initial impression was that we’d get in our separate cars and drive back to my house, since that’s where we’ve always spent time together. But no. He’s got other ideas.
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?”
“B
ecause 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 my 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?”
&nbs
p; 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.
Hammered Page 15
