I blame her ex for most of her perplexity—for the betrayal she has to be feeling. But I have to question others in her life. Her grandfather for expecting her to marry a man she doesn’t love—who doesn’t love her—to keep a position that should be hers regardless of her marital status.
Yeah, she definitely needs some time alone.
Plus, leaving the room, if only for a few minutes, removes the distraction of her in my clothes. The crush I thought I was dealing with is more like complete infatuation at this point. I didn’t believe either of my brothers when they talked about the a-ha moment they had with their girlfriends. I do now.
The second Lizzi came out of the bathroom wearing a pair of my oversized shorts and a tank that reaches mid thigh, I knew I was fucked. The woman had my blood running hot before; now there’s a fire in my veins I’ve never experienced.
Distracting myself with preparing a snack platter isn’t helping. The image of her lifting the sledgehammer and swinging at the wall is on repeat in my head. With each imagined swing, my pants get tighter and my heart beats faster.
How can she be sexy in ill-fitting clothes?
They hide more than they show and honestly, she looks so out of her element, so unlike her usual self, that I figured the crush I had would vanish the longer we spend together. Only it’s just the opposite. With every second, I want another.
Leaving her alone in the other room was for me as much as her and I know I’m stalling. Fiddling with the way the knife sits beside the block of cheese, making sure the crackers are in a straight line, checking there’s an even number of grapes…
Yeah, it’s official.
I’m a chicken-shit.
And I can’t put it off any longer. For one, there has been no banging from the other room and if I didn’t know she’d left her cash with her clothes in my bedroom, I’d think she’d snuck out the front door.
With the platter set up on the island, a couple of glasses ready for whatever her drink of choice is, I’m out of excuses.
No point waiting any longer.
Taking a deep breath, I leave the kitchen and head for the formal dining room. I don’t get further than the doorway. The sight in front of me stops my heart. Lizzi stands, the handle of the hammer in her hand but it’s dangling by her side.
She looks dejected. Defeated. And I hate it. I hate that someone has made her feel that way.
Before I can step into the room or speak, she sucks in a big breath, lifts the sledgehammer, and swings.
It’s faster and harder than her first attempt, and this time the rubber head breaks through the drywall, pulling off a chunk on the way out. The laugh that slips out of her puts a smile on my face and I’m about to tell her she did a good job when she lifts the hammer and swings again.
She’s ten hits in when she lowers her arms and rests the hammerhead on the floor between her feet. The smile on her face says it all. She enjoyed it. Which was my hope. I don’t have a chance to cheer her on or encourage her more because she’s lifting and swinging again.
Over and over, slam after slam, she pounds away at the wall. And each strike is like a stroke along the length of my cock. I’ve worked with female builders and not once did I get a hard on.
Butfuck. I’m as hard as the hammer smashing through the wall. My pants won’t hide my situation if she turns and looks, and right now I don’t know if I want to conceal how she makes me feel.
After discovering her fiancé cheating, she needs to know she’s desirable even if she doesn’t return my attraction. I know her marriage wasn’t a love match. I know her heart isn’t broken in that way.
Except I can’t imagine the revelations of today haven’t broken her heart in other ways.
From the little she’s said about her grandfather I don’t like him, and I hate the way he’s made her feel unworthy—not enough on her own.
Her strikes are getting softer, less vicious with each one, and I can see her arms are trembling with exertion. She’s taken a good chunk of the drywall down but there’s still more to go, except I know she’ll need to rest her muscles sooner than later.
“Wow!” I punch my voice up in volume and excitement. “Great job.”
“Oh.” She lowers the hammer and turns to face me. “I didn’t know you’d come back.”
I can’t help but grin at the sight of her. Dust and debris cover her from head to toe. The oversized boots I insisted she put on for protection have kept her feet clean but the rest of her is coated in a fine layer of white.
“What? What’s fun...”—she looks down at herself—“oh.”
“Yeah, maybe I should have found you a pair of long pants.”
“These already reach my shins.” Her gaze meets mine. “I had no idea this would be such dusty work.”
