Page 5 of Working For Her Curves

I slap my hand to my throat and she grins so wide it takes over her whole face.

“Come to karaoke with me Thursday,” I say. “The Foundry. I need to talk about literally anything else.”

“I’ll think about it.” She picks up her wine. “But I’m going on record: you’re going to sleep with that man before the summer’s over. And when you do, I want details.”

“I’m going home now, Maggie,” I laugh, grabbing my bag and preparing to walk to my Grandpa’s place.

What I want is so specific it scares me. I want his weight on me. His muscular arms holding me. His hips meeting mine. His hands on my waist, the back of my thigh, pulling my knee higher. What sound would he make? My legs around him, my hands caressing the muscles that his shirt didn’t hide.

What is happening to me?

CHAPTER 3

MARTY

Twenty-three and a quarter,” Joe says. “Not twenty-four.”

“I said twenty-three.”

“You said twenty-four. Twice.” He holds the tape against the header. “You good?”

I grab the tape and re-mark the line, but I press too hard and the pencil tip snaps.

No. I’m not good. I’m standing on a framing platform in ninety-degree heat with sawdust in my teeth and my cock straining against my zipper because my brain has locked onto the fantasy of Poppy Briggs underneath me, my hips grinding hers into the mattress, her thighs wrapped around my waist, those pink lips parted and wet and saying my name like it was the only word she wanted to say. I’d have that fitted shirt up over her head in a second flat. Get my mouth on the curve of her tits, taste the soft skin between them, work down the curve of her stomach while she arches up and pulls me where she wants me.

I drive a nail sideways. Yank it. Try again.

I shift my weight and seriously consider ducking into the john to jerk off before I drive a nail through my own hand. It’s not dignified, but I can’t focus when I’m this hard.

A two-by-four slips off the sawhorse and clatters onto the platform like a gunshot.

“Wow.” Noah’s at the base of the framing, hard hat tipped back, arms folded, looking at me in amazement. “You dropped a board.”

“Sawhorse is uneven.”

“Sure, you tell yourself that. What’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“The woman who’s got you so distracted I’m worried you’re going to put a nail through your hand.” He picks up the two-by-four and leans it against the stud wall. “I’ve worked with you for months. You don’t make mistakes. You make other people cry about their mistakes. So either you’re having a stroke or you met somebody, and you’re too healthy for a stroke.”

I drive a nail. Clean this time. The gun kicks hard into my palm. “Drop it.”

“Was it the granddaughter? Please tell me it was the granddaughter. Please tell me Miss PowerPoint Briefcase walked in and you’re banging her.”

“She’s fine.”

Noah laughs and shakes his head. “I think you mean she’s hot and that you haven’t banged her, but you want to.”

“She’s smarter than I expected. And yeah, she’s pretty.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake.

Noah is silent for a loud moment, then busts into laughter. “Oh, you are so screwed.”

“I’m not screwed.”

“You just said a woman was smart and pretty in the same sentence without anyone holding a gun to your head. I’ve heard you compliment three things total since I met you: your truck, this nail gun, and one sunset, but you were drunk so I don’t think it counts.” He jabs a finger at me. “You might as well lie down in traffic.”

“I complimented your haircut last month.”