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Added 2025-05-18 17:00:21 +0000 UTC

The heat in the shop was the kind that stuck to your skin.

Fans hummed uselessly overhead. My overalls clung in all the wrong places, grease streaked across my thigh, and my sports bra was the only thing saving me from fully overheating. I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm and looked up when the bell above the front door rang.

And that’s when I saw him.

Jeans. Fitted tee. Handsome in a way that felt rough around the edges. He looked around, unsure, until his eyes landed on me — and stayed there just a second too long.

"Hey," I called out, pulling off one glove. "Looking for service?"

His mouth curved.
"Something like that."

He explained something about his brakes — I half listened, mostly distracted by the way his eyes kept dropping to my chest, to the oil-smudged line of my collarbone. I led him out to the garage, pointing out where to park.

He followed close. Too close.

“Is it always this hot in here?” he asked, tugging at his collar.

“Depends who walks in,” I said.

The tension crackled instantly. The moment he stepped in close — close enough to touch — my breath caught. I didn’t move when his hand found my hip, when his eyes searched mine like he was already imagining what I’d taste like.

“Anyone around?” he asked, voice low.

I looked toward the empty garage. The rest of the crew was out on a late lunch.

“Nope.”

He pulled me in by the waistband of my overalls and kissed me hard — no hesitation, no small talk. My hands went to his shoulders, gripping tight as he pressed me back against the tool cabinet, mouth hot, tongue teasing, like he needed to have me right there.

And I let him.

My hips rolled against his, greedy, aching, while he kissed down my neck, pushing one strap of my overalls off my shoulder and slipping a hand beneath the waistband.

The way he touched me — bold, sure — made me dizzy.

He bent me over the workbench, my palms flat on cool metal, hips shifting back to meet him. I moaned softly, biting my lip to stay quiet as he pushed into me. Slow. Deep. Taking his time.

He grabbed my ponytail. Pulled.
Thrust.
Harder.

I lost control of everything — breath, voice, sense of time. The room was thick with heat and sweat and skin. He lifted me up at one point, pressing me against the hood of his car. Another time, I was straddling him on the mechanic’s chair, riding him while trying not to knock over the socket sets.

It was messy.
Rough.
Exactly what I needed.

When it was over, I was panting, dazed, leaning against his chest while he ran his fingers down my back like he hadn’t just wrecked me in every possible way.

He kissed my forehead and whispered, “Guess I’ll be back for that brake job after all.”

I grinned against his skin.

“Next time,” I said, “I’ll charge you for labor.”

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