5. Manual Handling
FIVE
MANUAL HANDLING
Evan
“You owe me.” Bodie crosses his arms as I park the LTV halfway between where I high-jacked it and Building Ten, where I left a pouting Kaley.
“No I don’t.” I jump off, pointing to his wife, her glistening rhinestones making her easily discernible as she tugs off her platform sneakers, readying to launch herself into the bouncy house with all the kids. “I’m babysitting, remember?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bodie climbs in the LTV, and I begin the trek back to Building Ten. “Good luck.”
“I’m gonna need it,” I mutter.
I’m pretty sure Ian was trying to embarrass me with what he said, but if Kaley has spent the last week worrying over whether or not the two of us are serious, I don’t need her spiraling and thinking I was gossiping about her.
I used my security card to get her in the building, which thanks to Ian I knew was empty.
But seeing as I’d have my ass handed to me if I left the LTV unattended, I could only point Kaley in the direction of my office on the second floor mezzanine before jumping back in the rover and driving it back.
Not wanting to keep her waiting, I break into a jog.
* * *
Still jogging, I crest the top of the stairs just as Kaley’s head peeks out of my office doorway.
“Oh good.” Her worried expression clears when she sees me. “It’s you.” She beckons me into my own office. “I found the coveralls.”
I dip my head, hiding my smile while I walk down the narrow hallway in front of my office.
The mezzanine overlooks the rest of the open-plan, three-story tall building, which, at over a hundred yards long, is full of oversized machinery and projects, both large and small in scale, dotted around the main floor in various stages of production.
Entering my office, I pull up at the sight of Kaley in royal blue coveralls.
Seeing my expression, her eyes fall to the worn yet clean gray jumpsuit I threw over my shoulder on my way up—one of the many that both the technicians and system engineers wear over their clothes when working downstairs. “What are those?”
“These”—I toss the gray fabric onto my cluttered desk—“are the coveralls I told you I’d get you.”
“Then what are these?” She runs a hand down the pristine, royal blue canvas, dotted with patches I’ve sewn onto it over the years.
“ Those ”—I nod to her hand, grazing over my ISS Expedition 50 patch—“are a future Mitchell family heirloom.”
NASA does this thing where they design a patch for each mission, flight, and project. So just as astronauts have a patch for each shuttle mission they fly, there are also patches for non-astronauts that highlight various missions and projects they’ve worked on.
Each patch Kaley’s wearing—Artemis Lunar Terrain Vehicle, CanadArm2, Robonaut and more—I’ve collected and sewn on to create a sort of story of my career at NASA.
It’s telling that I’m not the least upset over Kaley wearing what I’ve kept hidden in my lower file cabinet drawer, close by, but never worn myself.
She looks fantastic. Like it was made for her.
Which is a funny thought to have considering she’s had to roll both the sleeves and the pant legs to make it fit.
“Sorry.” Kaley’s mouth pull back in a grimace. “I should’ve waited for you to get back.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I turn to close the door. “About what Ian said—” I take one step toward her, pausing when my eyes make note of what’s neatly folded on the chair in front of my desk. “Is that your shirt?” I point to the red fabric.
Kaley blinks at the abrupt change in subject. “Uh, yeah.”
“You took off your clothes”—suddenly strained, I clear my throat—“before putting on the coveralls?” I close my eyes, needing a moment to regroup.
“Should I not have?”
As my regrouping only serves to give my brain time to focus on imagining Kaley, standing nearly naked in my office, I open my eyes again. “Coveralls are called that because they cover your clothes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know that, but my pants were ripped, so I thought?—”
“And your shirt?” I swallow, finding the act hard, as if my brain forgot how to do it. “Why did you take your shirt off?”
She throws her hands up, apparently at a loss over why I’m so fixated on what she’s wearing under her coveralls. “Well, I mean, I thought it would be weird to just wear a polo and no pants.”
Her lack of self-awareness has me closing the distance between us. I clutch her upper arms, dropping my forehead to hers. “You’re killing me, Kaley.”
One zip. That’s all that’s between me and Kaley Parker.
Between the ripped pants and now the coveralls, I can’t help but feel that the universe I work so hard to help explore is seriously testing me.
“Um, Evan?”
As if proving my hypothesis, Kaley licks her lips.
Inhaling the scent of lemons, I exhale long and slowly, struggling for control. “Yeah?”
“Just to be clear.” She swallows, the act seeming to take her just as much effort as it did me.
I lift my head in an attempt to ease the tension growing in my jeans. “You do love clarity.”
I’m graced with another classic Kaley eye roll.
“Yes, well, anyway …” She blows back a few flyway hairs tickling her temple.
“I know I just sort of threw the whole ‘not casual’ thing at you. But I”—her gaze drops to my throat—“uh, wondered what, exactly, that meant to you.” She shrugs under my touch.
“I mean, the definition of ‘not casual’ is subjective, and it might mean something different for you than me, so I thought it might be good to?—”
“Clarify?” I fight the smile, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate me finding her adorable right now.
Though I must not be successful because when she looks up, her blue eyes narrow, and I rush to answer to avoid another playful backhand.
“‘Not casual’ means serious.” I tilt my head, one brow lifted. “It means communicating. You know, like, answering calls and replying to texts.”
I can tell she wants to roll her eyes again by the way her lips twitch at the corners.
“It means exclusive.”
The space above her nose wrinkles. “So you haven’t been dating anyone?” Her eyes cut to the side. “It’s okay if you did, I?—”
“No one.” I give her arms a squeeze. “How could there be when you had me at ‘heavy machinery safety recertification’?”
When she releases a light and breathy laugh, I feel like I passed a test.
And as if thinking the same thing, she gives me a reward—wrapping her arms around me and pulling me into a sweet, soft kiss.
A kiss that melts, burning into one just like we shared on our last date.
One hand moves up to cradle the back of her head, the other down over the globe of her ass, confirming what I’d guessed from my earlier visual assessment, that it’s both firm and plump.
We kiss until our breath is hot and short and, breaking free of her lips, I trail kisses down her neck while my dick pushes uncomfortably against my jeans—for the third time today.
I squeeze her ass once more before migrating up and around, trailing over the exposed skin beneath her collarbone, finding the zipper.
Lowering it an inch, I then raise it. I repeat the action, each time grazing the skin above her breasts with my fingertips while kissing beneath her ear—my heartbeat thundering in my chest.
I have the random thought that I’ll never be able to drink lemonade without getting aroused when Kaley grabs my hand at the zipper with both of hers.
Stilling, I open my mouth to apologize for taking things too far. But my words vanish when, instead of pushing my hand away, Kaley pushes it down , bringing the zipper with it.
I lean back and watch as inch by inch, she reveals herself, not stopping until the zipper is just below her navel.
My God.
Kaley’s trim. I’ve always noted that. And strong too, which anyone who saw her launch a fully-grown man ten feet in the air across a ball pit would agree with. She was a college athlete, after all.
But seeing her now in a see-through black lace bra and a thong of the same material, I’m rendered dumb by her lush breasts, slim hips, and nipped-in core. She’s a slender hourglass that makes me want to learn how to tell time all over again.
“Evan.” There’s a plea in her voice, one that acts like an electric shock, restarting my brain.
My answer is to back her up to my desk, push my laptop to the side with one hand, and swipe the rest clear with the other. I stare at her as an assortment of office supplies and papers flutters to the floor. “Stop me if I go too fast.”
I give her a chance to nod before sliding my hands inside the coveralls, gripping her waist and lifting her onto the hard cleared surface.
Then I feast on the table I set before me.
I lower my head, and Kaley’s forced to brace herself on the desk behind her with both arms as I lavish her nipples, poking through the lace with hot, open-mouth kisses before tugging the fabric down with my teeth.
My hands are everywhere—gliding up her back, down her sides, fingers playfully snapping the waist of her thong until I move them under her, biting into her flesh so I can pull her even closer.
Kaley, a mess of desire and moans, grabs my shoulder with one hand, giving her the freedom to reach down and rub my erection with the other.
“Fuck, Kaley.” Letting go of her ass, I cover her hand with mine, allowing myself one hard thrust of friction against her before lifting her arm around my neck to latch on to her other.
Then, to stop her from distracting me, I wrap a hand around her ponytail, holding her in place.
“ Evan .” Back arching, neck exposed, Kaley’s legs widen as far as they can in her coveralls, inviting me closer.
I accept, kissing her while my other hand dips beneath the lace of her thong.
Her whimpers reverberate as I slide two fingers inside, the sound nearly making me come.
Head back, eyes closed, Kaley rocks herself on my hand as I circle her clit with my thumb.
As she moves faster, I thrust harder, sucking her breast into my mouth, pulling the skin hard enough to leave a mark.
“ Evan …” My name on her lips is a caress, sending shivers down my spine.
As I work her nipple and clit in tandem, Kaley begins to lose rhythm, her body jerking in its search for release. Until, on one final thrust, she lunges forward, holding herself against me as the orgasm overtakes her.
Then my phone rings.
* * *
Kaley
I’ve never had an orgasm serenaded.
Evan’s shoulders rise and fall in exasperation, his fingers still inside me as Frank Sinatra croons “Fly Me to the Moon.”
After a moment, his phone, which sounds like it’s tucked into his back pocket, goes silent.
“Sorry about that.” His fingers rub my sensitized flesh.
“Mmmm.” My body, still humming, tightens around him.
But just as he moves to kiss me, Frank starts up again. Sighing, Evan brushes his lips to my temple before using his free hand to grab his phone. “Hell?—”
“Mitchell!”
Rearing back, Evan’s fingers leave me, my sound of dismay drowned out as the man on the other end of Evan’s call continues to shout. “You better have a damn good reason for abandoning me and the SAFER pack at the entrance to the moon bounce.”
“Fuck, the jet pack.” As if about to run his hands over his face, he raises his hand, pausing when he notices it glistening. Throwing me a sly look, he sticks the fingers that were inside me into his mouth, licking them clean.
I swallow back another whimper.
“Sorry, Andy. I?—”
“Sorry my ass.”
I hear children’s laughter in the background.
“I grabbed the SAFER, so that’s fine, but get your ass over here with more astronaut ice cream or I swear to God there’s going to be a riot.”
Evan nods. “Of course. Be there in five.” Tossing the phone beside me on the desk, he drops his hands to his hips and sighs. “I need to go save Andy.”
“I heard.” I smile at the sight of him—fully dressed, erect, an unenthusiastic expression on his face.
Hearing the laughter in my voice, he casts me a playful glare before bracing his hands on either side of me. “But you and I aren’t done.”
I drop my eyes at the hard-on straining against his jeans.
He shakes his head. “No, not that.” He pauses, his grin turning sheepish. “I mean, not not that.” Pushing off the desk, he adjusts his jeans as if trying to make himself more comfortable. “But I want to take you out. After I run over an emergency, riot-ending supply of freeze-dried ice cream.”
I nod, my orgasm making me feel very agreeable. “Okay then.”
“Good.” He gives me a hard peck on the forehead. “Be back in ten.”
Five minutes later, I’ve managed to readjust my bra and panties to their rightful place and change out of Evan’s cherished blue coveralls and into the gray ones.
Evan’s phone, which he left on his desk, buzzes with notifications.
Ignoring it, I examine the blue jumpsuit, checking that my wearing it hadn’t caused any damage and learning more about Evan’s job.
You had me at heavy machinery safety recertification.
I snort, remembering his words.
Placing the—thankfully unharmed—coveralls back in the file drawer, I pause, remembering what else Evan had said. There’s been no one.
I should’ve asked him about the woman I saw. But he looked so sincere, and the moment had been so good and I’d been so very aware of him that I hadn’t wanted to ruin it.
More buzzing.
Worried that his phone lighting up like it’s Christmas might mean there’s another problem besides a low supply of freeze-dried treats, I turn it over. Text boxes pop up on the screen.
Pat is interested. Swipe right to agree to meet.
Dylan messaged you about your upcoming date.
Alex marked interest in another date.
For a moment, I just stand there, stunned, re-reading the notifications stacked up like file folders on the phone screen. Then, on the third read, I drop ungracefully into Evan’s desk chair.
Wow. Okay. Wow.
I hadn’t realized how much harder the stab of disappointment would hit me in comparison to seeing him with another woman just after one orgasm.
As I sit there, trying to absorb this turn of events, I’m surprised when, instead of dissolving into despair, like my mother would have, my disappointment turns into rage. The lying, fucking bastard.
Standing to leave, I remember his desire to communicate better.
I grab his phone on my way out.