Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
SANDRA
"Hand me the socket wrench," I say, reaching out without looking up from the Mustang's engine bay. My fingers close around cool metal as Diesel places the tool in my hand. "Thanks."
"You're a quick study," he observes, leaning against the workbench behind me. "Most people take months to learn what you've picked up in two weeks."
I smile, concentrating on loosening the bolt exactly as he taught me. "What can I say? I have an excellent teacher."
The garage is quiet this morning, just the two of us.
Marcus is out sick, and Diesel closed the shop to other customers to focus on my car.
The past week since the tree lighting ceremony has been perfect—days spent at the garage learning mechanics, evenings at his cabin or Grandpa's place, nights tangled in each other's arms.
"There," I say with satisfaction as the bolt gives way. "One down, seven to go."
Diesel moves closer, his chest pressing against my back as he reaches around to inspect my work. "Perfect," he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. "Just like you."
A shiver runs through me at the contact. Even after a week of passionate nights together, his touch still affects me like a live wire. "Careful, Casanova. If you keep distracting me, this engine will never get rebuilt."
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me back against him. "Would that be so terrible? Means you'd have to stay longer."
I turn in his arms, wiping my greasy hands on a shop rag before looping them around his neck. "Are you saying you want me to stick around?"
Something flickers in his eyes—hope mingled with hesitation. "Maybe I am."
My heart swells. We've been dancing around this topic since that first night together, both of us feeling the connection but afraid to label it or push too far too fast. "I want that too," I admit. "I'm falling for you, Diesel. Hard."
The smile that spreads across his face makes him look younger, more carefree than the grumpy mechanic I first met. He leans down, capturing my lips in a kiss that starts soft but quickly intensifies. I press closer, my body molding to his, the familiar heat building between us.
"We should lock the front door," I whisper against his mouth. "Unless you want to give your customers an eyeful."
"Already did," he growls, lifting me onto the workbench. Tools clatter to the floor, but neither of us cares. "The sign says 'Closed.'"
His hands push under my shirt, calloused fingers finding bare skin. I gasp as he cups my breast through my bra, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens beneath the fabric. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him against the apex of my thighs where I'm already hot and aching for him.
"Diesel," I moan as his lips find my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear that he's discovered drives me wild. "We can't... not here... your workbench..."
"Watch me," he challenges, green eyes dark with desire. "I've been thinking about taking you right here since you first walked into my garage."
The confession ignites something primal in me. I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine. "Then what are you waiting for?"
He grins, wolfish and predatory, before pulling my shirt over my head and unclasping my bra in one practiced motion. The cool air of the garage hits my bare breasts, nipples pebbling instantly.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathes, taking a moment just to look at me before lowering his head to take one peak into his mouth.
The wet heat of his tongue sends jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him closer.
His hands work at my jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping with increasing urgency.
I lift my hips, helping him slide them down along with my panties until I'm half-naked on his workbench, surrounded by engine parts and tools.
It should feel dirty, illicit. Instead, it feels perfect—raw and honest, like everything with Diesel.
"Your turn," I insist, tugging at his t-shirt until he pulls it off, revealing the tattooed expanse of his chest and abs. I run my hands over him, tracing the patterns that I've begun to memorize. "So beautiful," I murmur.
He captures my wandering hands, pressing a kiss to each palm before placing them on the bench beside me. "Hold onto the edge," he instructs, voice pitched low in that commanding tone that never fails to make me weak.
I comply, gripping the metal edge as he drops to his knees before me. "Diesel, what—" My question dissolves into a gasp as he hooks my legs over his shoulders, opening me fully to his gaze.
"Been thinking about tasting you all morning," he says, breath hot against my inner thigh. "The way you bend over that engine... you have no idea what it does to me."
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me, tongue delving into my wetness with expert precision. I cry out, hips bucking against his face. He holds me steady with strong hands on my thighs, setting a rhythm that builds the tension inside me with devastating efficiency.
"Oh god," I pant, fighting to keep my eyes open, wanting to watch him as he pleasures me. The sight of his dark head between my thighs, the intense concentration on his face, pushes me closer to the edge.
He looks up, our eyes meeting as he circles my clit with his tongue, and the connection sends me spiraling into orgasm. I come with his name on my lips, body shuddering, hands white-knuckled on the bench edge.
Before I've fully recovered, he's standing, unzipping his jeans to free his erection. The sight of him, thick and hard and ready for me, renews my desire instantly.
He pulls a condom from his wallet, tearing the foil with his teeth. I take it from him, rolling it down his length with deliberate slowness, enjoying the way his breath catches when I squeeze him gently.
"Tease," he accuses with a smile that's equal parts affection and lust.
"You love it," I counter, guiding him to my entrance.
"I love—" He cuts himself off, expression suddenly intense as he pushes inside me in one smooth thrust.
The admission stays unfinished but understood. Too soon to say out loud, perhaps, but felt nonetheless. I pull him down for a kiss, pouring everything I'm feeling into it as he begins to move.
The workbench creaks beneath us, tools rattling with each powerful thrust. It's raw and primal and exactly what I need. Diesel watches me with hooded eyes, one hand on my hip, the other cupping my breast, thumb circling my nipple in time with his movements.
"Touch yourself," he urges, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I want to feel you come around me."
I slip a hand between us, finding my clit, already sensitive from his earlier attention. The dual stimulation quickly brings me back to the edge. "I'm close," I warn, fingers moving faster.
"Me too," he grunts, pace increasing. "Come with me, Sandra. Now."
His command pushes me over, my inner walls clenching around him as pleasure crashes through me for the second time. He follows immediately, body tensing, my name a prayer on his lips as he finds his release.
For a long moment, we stay like that, connected, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Then he kisses me, soft and tender, a stark contrast to the passionate frenzy of moments before.
He helps me clean up and get dressed, both of us exchanging secret smiles like teenagers who got away with something naughty. I feel light, happy, more content than I can remember being in years.
"So," I say once we're both presentable again. "About that engine rebuild?"
He laughs, pulling me in for another quick kiss. "Right. Work. That's what we're supposed to be doing."
We return to the Mustang, working side by side in comfortable synchronicity.
Diesel is a patient teacher, explaining each step, guiding my hands when needed, stepping back to let me try on my own.
By lunchtime, we've made significant progress, and I feel a swell of pride looking at what we've accomplished together.
"Lunch break?" he suggests, checking the time. "I could grab us something from Bean & Bloom."
"Perfect." I wipe my hands on a shop rag. "I'll keep working on this while you're gone."
He raises an eyebrow. "You sure? I can wait if you want a break too."
"I'm sure. I'm enjoying this." And I am. There's something satisfying about working with my hands, about understanding how things fit together. Maybe I inherited more from Grandpa Joe than just his cabin.
Diesel kisses me quickly before heading out. Once he's gone, I turn back to the engine, determined to make progress on my own. The radio plays Christmas music softly in the background, and I hum along as I work.
The bell over the door jingles, and I look up, expecting Diesel back already. Instead, a woman stands in the doorway—tall, sleek, and intimidatingly beautiful in a way that immediately makes me aware of my grease-stained clothes and messy hair.
"Sorry, we're closed today," I say, straightening up. "Diesel just stepped out for lunch."
She looks me up and down, a small smile playing at the corners of her red-painted lips. "And you are?"
"Sandra Hemmings." I wipe my hands on my jeans before extending one. "I'm a... customer." The label feels inadequate, but I'm not sure what else to call myself.
She ignores my outstretched hand. "A customer who has access to the garage when the owner isn't here? That's... unusual."
Something about her tone puts me on edge. "Diesel's teaching me about engines while he rebuilds my car," I explain, though I'm not sure why I feel the need to justify my presence. "He'll be back soon if you want to wait."
"I'm sure he will." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Tell him Vanessa stopped by. He'll know who I am."
The name sends an inexplicable chill down my spine. "Can I give him a message?"