Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
F ox
My cock throbs as the door to the loft clicks closed softly, signaling her departure. Pain bites behind the zipper and forces me to loosen the button and drop the metal teeth, freeing my raging problem and causing a sigh of relief to wash through me. The garage smells like grease and gasoline, familiar and comforting. It’s where everything makes sense—parts fit together, problems have solutions, and silence is a welcome companion.
And then I think of Amelia’s lips on mine, and I’m done.
I cup my balls in one hand, sliding my palm up the shaft of my throbbing dick and fist tightly. I imagine what I’d do to her if she was with me, pushing her fleshly ass cheeks apart and licking her sweet little cunt clean. I’ve been dreaming of making this girl mine since she walked into my garage, and every passing moment the threads of control threaten to snap a little more.
I jerk my cock harder, the need to relieve the pressure causing me to boil over. I steady my hand on the stone wall, imagining bracing her with my hips and fucking her hard and deep until she is exhausted and weak around my cock, my seed and only mine coating her completely.
I’m a man possessed with wild and forbidden thoughts of her, my sexy, sassy little roommate from hell.
Just the thought of spanking the sass out of her and then dragging my tongue along her succulent skin has me creaming, jets of semen covering my palm and soaking the front of my dark denim jeans. The cage of my chest rattles, all the muscles in my body tense as I come down from the best fucking orgasm of my life, all because I’ve finally allowed myself to have these thoughts of her.
“Hey–can you grab the throw blanket from the dryer when you come to bed–” The door crashes open, a voice singsongs from the top of the stairs. “Oh–”
My back tenses, cum still leaking through the crack of my fingers.
I gulp, adjusting my still twitching cock back into my jeans and trying to quick-button them.
“Amelia,” I turn, fake smile covering the embarrassment that the woman of the hour has just caught me jerking off to...her. “So much for giving a guy a head's up.”
Her gaze drops, “It looks like I just stumbled upon something a lot more interesting than I anticipated.”
I grunt, closing my zipper and returning to the truck. “Just changing the oil on this old thing–taking a little longer than I thought.”
“Oh, okay.” I hear her pad down the stairs. My system tenses, awareness of her growing with every step. “Do you want any help?”
“From you, Princess? No–I’m fine,” I grunt.
When she reaches me she leans over my shoulder, the scent of the flowery shampoo she uses in her hair fills my nostrils and causes a spring to coil tightly in my stomach. My girl always smells good, good enough to eat and I can’t help wondering if her sweet pussy tastes as good as she smells.
“I’ve always wanted to learn to change my own oil.”
“You? Really?” I turn, catching her gaze.
“Yeah–that’s a practical thing a girl should learn, right?”
“Sure–if you think so. I gotta tell ya, I’m the kind of guy that will change your oil anytime, City Girl.” I send her a sideways smirk, knowing she’ll pick up on my innuendo.
Her beautiful eyes flicker, a smile shining through her irises that draws me in. A sudden wave of gratitude washes over me that this woman was dropped in my life–unexpected but welcome, bringing chaos wrapped in a too-bright smile and a determined glint in her eyes that lights up my life.
“Is that so? A gentleman and a caveman, aren’t you a man of contradictions. Well…I figure I can’t just stay here for free without pitching in,” she announces, hands on her hips and a sweet smile, like she’s just enlisted for duty.
“Okay then. This is the oil cap–”
“Where?” She leans in a little closer.
A low growl leaves my lips. “You don’t know the first thing about cars, huh?” I mutter, straightening up and wiping my hands on a rag.
“I can learn.” She tilts her chin up, daring me to challenge her.
I drag a hand down my face. “Amelia, this isn’t some travel blog adventure. This is work. Real work. I can’t have it on my conscience if you get hurt.”
Her lips quirk into a smirk. “You won’t let me get hurt.”
I sigh, hard. There’s no winning against her, not when she looks at me like that, her eyes dancing with mischief and determination, as if she’s daring me.
“Fine,” I grumble. “But don’t blame me when you end up covered in grease.”
She claps her hands together like she’s just scored a victory. “Deal.”
Half an hour later, I’m regretting my life choices. She’s standing next to me, wearing one of my old flannels over her yoga leggings, her hair tied back in a messy bun that somehow still looks perfect. I hand her a wrench and point to the oil filter.
“Loosen that,” I say, keeping my tone clipped. “But don’t?—”
The wrench slips from her hand before I can finish, clanging against the concrete floor. She winces, looking up at me sheepishly.
“—drop it,” I finish, my patience hanging by a thread.
“Sorry,” she mutters, picking it up and trying again. This time, she gets it, the filter loosening with a satisfying twist.
“Not bad,” I admit, grudgingly.
She beams, and for a moment, I’m distracted by the way her smile lights up the space. I quickly look away, focusing on the truck.
“Now, drain the oil.” I hand her a pan and step back, crossing my arms as I watch her awkwardly maneuver under the truck.
She manages to position the pan correctly, but when the oil starts flowing, she yelps and jerks back, splattering black grease across her hands and onto her face.
“Oh, come on!” she groans, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand, only smearing the grease further.
I can’t help it—I laugh. A deep, rumbling laugh that I haven’t let loose in years. She glares at me, her cheeks flushing under the streaks of oil.
“It’s not funny,” she snaps, trying to clean her hands on the hem of my flannel.
“It’s a little funny,” I counter, smirking as I toss her a clean rag. “Welcome to the glamorous world of mechanics.”
She snatches the rag, grumbling under her breath as she wipes at her hands. But her irritation fades as she glances up at me, her expression softening. “You should laugh more,” she says, her voice quieter now.
I freeze, the words hitting somewhere deep. “Yeah, well,” I mutter, looking away. “Not much to laugh about.”
She doesn’t push, just keeps cleaning up, and for a moment, the garage is quiet except for the steady drip of oil.
By the time the oil is drained and the new filter is in place, she’s somehow managed to knock over a toolbox, spilling sockets and wrenches everywhere. Grease stains her hands, her cheeks, even the tips of her hair. She looks like a complete disaster—and yet, I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Stop laughing,” she says, pointing a grease-covered finger at me.
“I’m not laughing,” I lie, fighting the smirk tugging at my lips. “You’re just...a mess.”
She scowls, but there’s no heat behind it. “Maybe if someone had given me better instructions?—”
“Better instructions?” I interrupt, stepping closer. “You’re the one who turned the wrench the wrong way.”
“Because someone”—she pokes my chest—“was too busy being grumpy to explain it properly.”
Her touch sends a spark through me, and before I can think better of it, I grab the rag from the workbench and step even closer, tilting her chin up with one hand.
“You’ve got grease...everywhere,” I murmur, my voice rough as I gently wipe at the smudges on her cheek.
Her breath hitches, and the air between us thickens. She’s so close I can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the way her lips part slightly, like she’s waiting for something.
“Fox,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I don’t think. I just act.
Leaning down, I press my lips to hers, slow and deliberate. She gasps against my mouth, her hands clutching at my shirt as I deepen the kiss, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us. She tastes like coffee and stubbornness, and I’m instantly addicted.
But then she pulls back, her eyes wide and searching. “What are we doing?” she asks, her voice shaky.
I run a hand through my hair, stepping back to give her space. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice gruff. “But I know one thing, Amelia, I want you. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to figure me out, like she’s not sure if she should run or stay. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words.
Finally, she nods, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
And then the hum of the garage fades to sudden silence as everything plunges into darkness.