18. Ben #2
Her fingers tangle in my hair, blunt nails scraping against my scalp as she keeps me exactly where she wants me. The sting is perfect, grounding me in this moment where nothing exists but her body beneath mine and the slick heat of her around me.
"Harder," she breathes against my ear, voice wrecked already, and who am I to deny her?
I oblige without hesitation, snapping my hips forward with enough force to make the desk groan beneath us.
Somewhere behind us, a forgotten wrench clatters to the concrete floor, but neither of us so much as flinches.
The world outside this moment doesn't matter—not the invoices scattered beneath her, not the cold garage air, not the life waiting for either of us beyond these walls.
Right now, there's only this. Only her.
Her breath catches in ragged little hitches with every rough thrust, each one driving her higher—her thighs clamping around my hips in a wordless plea for more.
I can feel the tension coiling tighter in her body, the way her fingers clutch at my shoulders, the desperate arch of her spine as she chases release.
Sliding my hand between us, I press my thumb against her clit in slow, deliberate circles, matching the rhythm of my hips. The broken whimper she lets out sends heat licking through my veins, spurring me deeper, harder.
Then she shatters.
Her back bows off the desk, her mouth falling open in a soundless cry as her climax crashes through her—every muscle tightening around me in waves so intense it steals my breath.
The sensation drags me right over the edge with her, pleasure burning white-hot down my spine, my hips stuttering as I bury myself deep inside her one last time.
For a long moment, I just slump against her, still connected, still trembling, my forehead pressed to the damp curve of her collarbone as we both struggle to catch our breath.
Her fingers drift lazily through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp—soothing, grounding—like she’s memorizing the feel of me, just as I am with her.
After a long moment, I reluctantly pull away, my hands trembling slightly as I help her sit up on the very edge of the desk.
The wood creaks beneath us, still warm from our combined heat.
Gently, I brush strands of her damp hair back from her flushed face, my rough fingertips catching on the silky strands.
She leans into my touch like a cat seeking sunlight, her eyelids heavy with satisfaction.
Her lips curve into that lazy, satisfied smile I'm coming to recognize—the one that makes her nose crinkle just slightly at the corners.
"Guess I'm paying extra for the detailed invoice," she murmurs, voice still husky.
There's a teasing glint in her dark eyes as she reaches up to wipe a smudge of grease from my cheekbone that definitely wasn't there before.
The unexpected joke catches me off guard, and I bark out a rough laugh, the sound echoing off the garage's metal walls.
Before she can say anything else, I lean in to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with something warmer, something uniquely her.
"Worth it," I murmur against her skin, meaning it more than she probably realizes.
I crouch to retrieve her discarded leggings from the concrete floor, shaking them out carefully.
The fabric is still warm from her body heat as I kneel to help guide her feet through the legs, my hands lingering on her calves longer than strictly necessary.
She braces one hand on my shoulder for balance, her fingers squeezing gently in quiet thanks.
When she pulls her oversized cardigan back over her shoulders, the sleeves swallow her hands whole, making her look softer somehow, more vulnerable than the polished woman who first stumbled into my garage days ago.
Across from her, I tug my jeans back up over my hips, the denim rough against oversensitive skin.
Neither moves to rush, the comfortable silence wrapping around us like the golden afternoon light filtering through the garage windows.
The old radio still hums some classic rock song in the background, the volume turned low enough that we'd missed it entirely earlier.
The space feels different now—not just the physical warmth from our bodies, but something deeper.
The tools hanging on their pegs, the scent of motor oil, even the faint chill from the concrete floor—it all feels softer somehow, like the garage itself is holding its breath.
She studies me for a long moment, her gaze tracing the lines of my face with an intensity that makes my throat tighten.
Then her fingers curl around mine, her thumb brushing over my grease-stained knuckles.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly. There's no fear in her voice, just open curiosity—like she's standing at the edge of something new and deciding whether to step forward.
I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to each knuckle in turn, tasting salt and something sweet beneath. My voice comes out rougher than I intend when I answer, "Whatever you want."