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Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting, #2)
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IMOGEN: Jesse says you better know what you’re doing with Franco.
I send Imogen another selfie, this one of my face—I’m biting my lower lip, eyes wide, glancing to the side at Franco laying next to me—his mouthwatering and lust-inducing body is on full display from the waist up. I send a caption a second later:
ME: YOU DONT UNDERSTAND!!! HE’S GOT A MAGICAL D*CK AND I’M FEELING THINGS!!!
I set the phone aside as Franco’s stunning blue eyes open and fix hungrily on me. He reaches for me, and all thoughts are banished except one:
God, I hope I know what I’m doing…
I laugh internally at that, because does anyone know what they’re doing?
I know I sure as hell don’t.
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I open my eyes, groggy and disoriented. Where am I?
Oh, right. It’s all coming back to me. I’m at the Marriot, just off the freeway, some three or four miles from the Waverley jobsite Franco is working on.
As I come fully awake, the next thing I realize is that I’m sore, if you know what I mean. It’s not as if I’ve never woken up with a sore hoo-ha before—I do have some experience with this. Actually, it’s happened quite a few times, and all of them were memorable to say the least. But this time? Holy Moses, I’m so sore. I feel like I’ve been fucked into next week.
I roll over, tugging the sheet up past my shoulder, and slide up against him from behind. He’s facing away, breathing evenly and slowly. I don’t think he’s totally asleep, though—I don’t know him well enough to be able to say, one way or the other, considering we only met the previous evening, and have spent the intervening ten hours having sex, calling room service, and sleeping. But I’m fairly certain I can tell—he snores ever so slightly, a subtle rasp of his breath in his throat on the inhale, and a gentle huff on the exhale.
I’m all too familiar with pretending to be asleep, so I recognize the signs. I normally fake being asleep to let the guy I just hooked up with leave first. I have a feeling that’s the same game Franco is playing right now.
Joke’s on him, though, because I have another plan: one more round of epic sex for the road.
I snuggle up behind him, rest my cheek between his shoulder blades, nudging my core up against his taut, firm butt. God, that ass is a work of art. I feel the hard globes against my thighs and pubis, his warm skin, and his faint dusting of body hair.
Casually, as if by accident, I toss my arm over his waist, letting it rest for a moment. And then, less accidentally, I place my hand on his body and find his abs, grooved and ridged and rock hard. Gently, I slide my palm against his skin, carving a path downward. His breathing doesn’t catch, but his core tenses. I smile against his back, knowing for certain he’s awake. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give anything else away. I run my hand down his thigh and back up, and then over his abs repeating the pattern, daring to go lower and lower on each pass over his stomach. The lower my hand travels, the harder his abs tense.
Finally, I clasp his erection in my fist and stroke it gently. Even though I’ve had this incredible organ inside me four—no, five—times already, I’m still marveling at its size and perfection. It’s just glorious and breathtaking. Eight inches long if it’s an inch, thick as a goddamn kielbasa sausage, and curved just enough toward the tip to hit my G-spot when he drives in at a certain angle…and believe me, he found that angle last night. And used it to scream-inducing effect. In fact, we got a call from the front desk at two-nineteen in the morning asking us to please quiet down, as there had been several noise complaints from other guests. Meaning, me. I’m loud—I’m a screamer and, when I’m coming hard enough I can’t stop myself from shrieking like a banshee, and last night, Franco made damn sure I couldn’t help myself.
Even my throat is sore from screaming.
And despite my sore throat and aching lady bits, I still want more. Five rounds of epic sex in less than twelve hours, at age forty, and I’m still ready for more from this guy.
I texted my girlfriend Imogen earlier last evening to tell her that Franco has a magical dick and, not only that, I’m scared because he makes me feel things. And I hate feeling things—at least, things other than orgasms.
Franco is still pretending to be sleeping, even as I slowly caress his shaft with one hand. The soft flesh stutters against my palm and fingers, all those inches sliding and gliding through my fist. I rub my thumb against the tip, stroke down to the base and back up, rub the tip—repeating until I feel pre-cum smearing against my thumb. Yet still, he remains motionless, breathing evenly.
Damn, he’s good.
I move my hand lower, cupping his balls, using my middle finger to massage his taint, and then return my touch to his iron-hard, yet velvet-soft erection. This time, I increase the speed of my strokes incrementally, sliding my fist up and down faster and faster in gradual degrees, until I’m pumping him rapidly.
He holds out admirably, remaining still until the last possible moment. And then, at last, he snarls wordlessly and knocks my hand away, rolling up onto his knees. Levered upright over me, he stares down at me with pale, icy-blue eyes flickering like twin flames. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his abs tense, muscles bunched, fists clenched.