by Alison Tyler
“Yeah,” I scoffed. “With professional hair and makeup!”
He tucked his cock away. He zipped and buckled. “With just-fucked hair and runny eyes.” He ruffled my unruly mop and caressed my wet cheek with his thumb. “And you don’t have either yet. It’s a long night,” he said with a grin.
“Promises, promises,” I said, sniffling.
He put the car in gear.
I didn’t put my seat belt on.
His place was a cozy little two-bedroom apartment in an anonymous-looking apartment complex. He had wine in the fridge, but I didn’t need it. What I needed was him on the couch, and my mouth back down where it belonged.
This time, he didn’t just let me work. Instead, he reached down and smoothly opened my blouse. He leaned over and unzipped my skirt. He worked it down over my hips nice and easy, and teased his foot between my knees so he could push my skirt down my legs and over my shoes. He undid my bra. I was naked before I even knew it, and Clay slid his hand in my hair to guide me off his cock.
“Greedy little slut,” he said. “Some of us haven’t even eaten yet.”
He led me to the bedroom and playfully pushed me on the bed. I watched as he stripped down, feeling that eerie familiarity with a body I knew like the back of my hand but had never seen naked before. He was gorgeous. He’d put maybe twenty pounds solid on his ebony frame since the porn I had watched, seemingly every ounce of it in his shoulders and arms. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of muscle girl. But…on some guys it just looks so good.
He was even hotter than when he’d “worked.” I wanted to ask him how the hell that worked, but he didn’t give me much time to look. As soon as he was naked, he was on me.
His wet mouth kissed its way down my body. He pressed it to my pussy, and those perfect lips did…things. But it was the tongue that really blew my mind.
When it comes to porn stars, they’re known for different things. André Clayton was known for this. And he did it in a way that made my heart pound…same way he seemed to do everything.
But in movies, eating pussy is a spectator sport, I guess. I’ve watched a lot of those movies, and I think you have to kind of lean back, lick without licking. He couldn’t get into it…not the way he could in private. With nobody watching, the visuals didn’t matter.
Except that I was watching, and the sight of André Clayton down between my legs was crazy hot.
He licked hard. He knew how to suck just a little as his tongue worked. He knew how to use his hands—I don’t mean inside me, at first, but all over me. On my thighs. On my belly. My breasts, my hips and my side. And then he took my hands and pulled me bodily onto him. By the time he pulled one hand away and slid two big fingers inside me, he had me right where he wanted me…there in the palm of his hand.
I’d never had an orgasm from being licked before. I certainly didn’t expect it. So when I realized it was going to happen, I wanted to warn him. But why?
Clay knew what he was doing.
He made me come easily, as if it was no effort at all. He seemed so in control that it made me feel that much smaller and helpless. What the fuck did I think I was I doing? Having sex with a porn star?
Yeah, I guess that was what I was doing. Part of me still didn’t believe it as the trembling sensations went through me again and again. I put my hands down on his shoulders and pushed, very gently.
“I want you,” I said.
When he looked at me, smiled and went back to eating me, I started blushing.
He took his time teasing me, making me wait for another five minutes of exquisite licking. At first I was almost too sensitive to tolerate any more of his tongue. Then somehow, Clay brought me back down to earth.
He knew just when to stop and lick back up my body and kiss me. I tasted pussy. He had a condom from somewhere, opened and ready. He put it on quickly with one hand.
Then he was in me, and I held him close. He started to move like a dancer, slowly, caressing me inside. It didn’t feel like fucking…it was more like a massage.
Wrapped around Clay’s big, muscled body, I starred in my own private André Clayton production. It was a director’s cut… twenty minutes longer than usual. It didn’t have a money shot. He was up deep inside me when he came, and I listened to his cries with a soft wave of ecstasy going through me.
This isn’t real, I thought. I’m jacking off, right? I’m, like, home with my vibrator?
Nope. When my mom called three hours later to ask if I’d bought the car, she didn’t get an answer and thought I was dead. Thank god the cops won’t take a missing person report for a full twenty-four hours.
Oh, Mom was pissed.
But I was…busy.
As far as my mom goes, to this day Clay Higgins is the guy who was going to sell me his car, but liked me and asked me out instead.
“What an interesting way to meet someone,” she sometimes says.
“Um,” I say. “Yeah. What are the chances?”
And as far as the rest? Well, it didn’t take long for Clay Higgins to match André Clayton’s history for delivering reliable orgasms.
Not like I kept an exact count for either, but in maybe two weeks, it wasn’t even a contest. And that’s only because it’s a long drive.
He still makes me weak when I hear him say, “Drive.” And the distance from my computer to André Clayton’s bed is now about thirty feet…from the office to the bedroom of that cute little cozy two-bedroom in Cooper City. What an interesting way to meet someone, huh?
Yeah, I guess. What are the chances?
BODY WORK
Cora Zane
It’s nothing to worry about, Katy, she just needs a little body work.”
That’s the thing about Joel Sutton I like the most. Aside from the fact he’s gorgeous and I’ve known him most of my life, he’s the hot-rod revving, busted-knuckles kind of mechanic who can appreciate the special bond between a girl and her car—in this case, a Laguna Gray, 1970 Corvette Stingray.
I stood with him in the open bay facing Winchester Road, trying to catch a breeze to save me from the blistering August heat. An industrial fan rattled away in the open brightness of a doorway at the other end of the garage, and above the rhythmic clatter of the fan blades, the tinny sound of a radio playing Zydeco music echoed from a speaker at the back corner of the business.
Joel squatted down next to my car, the scuffed toes of his combat boots crunching over the grit on the bay floor. A week before, some jerk driver hit my front fender while I was parked downtown. As if that wasn’t bad enough, on Tuesday, my car—my baby—started making a horrific grinding noise whenever the front wheel turned.
While Joel examined the bashed fender, I took the opportunity to admire his broad shoulders and the tribal designs curling around his powerful forearms. I’ve always had a thing for gearheads. More specifically, dirty, tattooed, garage boys.
With his spiky black hair, inked sleeves and ice-blue eyes, Joel definitely fit the bill. Beneath that navy work shirt with the oval name patch on the pocket, he’s tan and ripped. I’ve come across him working shirtless at least once every summer, and what a body. Completely lickable. For that reason, I’ve never missed an oil change. There’s something rewarding about watching an incredibly sexy mechanic servicing you, even if it’s only the car getting the lube job.
He stood up and walked around to the driver’s side, stopping by the front wheel well. I had no idea what he was doing since the car hadn’t taken a hit on that side. Before I could ask what he was looking for, he leaned forward, rested his cheek on the glossy, gray hood, and smoothed a raw-boned hand across the car’s flared fender.
I froze with my pen an inch away from the insurance check I was supposed to be signing. The sweeping movement Joel made was slow and deliberate, a caress of flesh over fine machinery. His scarred knuckles contrasted sharply against the spotless, shiny paint. I easily pictured him exploring the curve of a woman’s hip in much the same way.
I couldn
’t tear my gaze away. Joel’s face was both serious and serene. He had to be looking for…something. I wasn’t sure what. Lines and angles, dents and dips. Things only a mechanic would know to look for.
Whatever the case, he brushed his hand across the fender again, and I imagined him stroking his hands over my body with the same careful attention. A tingling sensation started at the base of my spine and quickly spread liquid fire through my belly. My brain launched itself on a mental pleasure trip that featured biting, lots of heavy breathing and raking my nails down Joel’s bare back.
A sharp pulse of pleasure made me squeeze my thighs together. I’d grown damp in two seconds flat. Then I realized Joel was no longer focused on the car. Instead, his gaze had fixed on me.
Somehow, I’d managed to snag his undivided attention. Our gazes locked. He stood straight and regarded me in a way that made my nipples harden beneath my slouchy T-shirt. For as long as I’d known him, he’d never looked at me like that before.
“I’d love to know what put that look on your face.”
Heat was slowly creeping up my neck. I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about and lowered my eyes to the clipboard in my hands. I scrawled my name on the back of the insurance check, intensely aware of Joel watching me. I dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s on the repair agreement then placed the clipboard on the ledger stand tucked against the wall between the two open bay doors.
He went on with his causal inspection. “We’ve known each other a long time. Why is it we’ve never gotten together?”
The question rang in my ears. My face had grown rosy hot. I was both flattered and intimidated by his sudden interest. “I guess it never occurred to either of us to give it a shot.”
A tiny white lie. How could it hurt?
It’s a little embarrassing when I think about how often he’s played a role in my fantasies. In fact, one of my favorite daydreams involves me riding him cowgirl style in the driver’s seat of my car—in this very garage. Take that well-worn fantasy and add my vibrator to the equation, and I swear I can come in five minutes flat.
He stopped directly in front of me. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Not currently.” My heart was galloping a mile a minute. “What about you?”
He picked up one of my long ginger curls and coiled it around his finger. “I’m still looking.”
“For trouble?” I folded my arms across my chest.
“For someone special,” he corrected me. Amusement lit his eyes. “But I guess trouble will do. Do you think I’ve found it?”
I licked my lips. “I guess that depends on why you’re asking.”
He caught the side of my face and blindsided me with a tender kiss that quickly turned hot and heavy. I slid my hands beneath his shirt to feel him skin to skin, and his hand found its way beneath my T-shirt to squeeze my breast. Every stroke of his tongue notched up the heat.
Soon Joel’s hand snaked past the waistband of my cutoffs. By then my heart was thundering in my ears. I widened my stance, allowing him better access, and he didn’t disappoint me. Rough fingers delved beneath the lacy edges of my panties and massaged my clit in tight circular motions. I gasped against the side of his neck and held on for the ride.
Joel kissed my hair. Then my temple. His breath tickled my ear.
“Tell me. How do you like to get off?”
Heat flooded my body. No one had ever asked me that before. I wasn’t quite sure what to say or how to react, but my panties grew damp as I thought about dragging Joel to the floor for a quick, messy fuck. I pictured myself rough-riding him on the concrete floor of the bay. Then on the ugly, plaid couch in the back office. And, of course, the front seat of my car was always a welcome option.
“I like to cowgirl.” I cringed at how breathy and unsure I sounded, but it was impossible to think straight with his fingers strumming my clit. I added quickly, “And sixty-nine.”
“Those are positions, sweetheart. I want to know what turns you on. What makes you want to come just thinking about it?”
I ground myself against his fingers. “What you’re doing is working pretty well.”
He stopped rubbing me at once, and I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. His expression chastised me. “That’s too easy, Katelyn. Try again.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to say.” It was the truth. I’d drawn a total blank. My mind worked furiously to come up with an answer he’d approve of. I mean, of course I know what I like—what turns me on. I like lots of things, lots of positions. Buzzy toys. Oral sex. How could I get more specific than that?
“I…I like to know I’m pleasing someone.” If nothing else, it was true.
Joel nodded. “I like that, too.” He had started rubbing my clit again. “What else do you like?”
Was this conversation really happening? The whole situation seemed surreal. The garage. Joel with his hand down the front of my jean shorts.
I was a hair’s breadth away from reaching orgasm, and it annoyed me that I couldn’t properly reciprocate. The front of his jeans boasted an obvious bulge, so I reached for it and began massaging his dick through his clothes. When he thrust himself hard against my hand, I nuzzled his stubbled cheek then traced the tip of my tongue over his lower lip. “I like you.”
Another truth.
“I like you too, Katy.” A slow smile curved his wicked mouth. He delved a finger into my cunt, and I sighed with pleasure. “You know, it’s strange. I’ve always pictured you being the type to try topping from the bottom—don’t ask me why.”
I frowned. I had no idea what he meant. I started to ask him, then I shook myself and pulled back enough to look up at him. “You’ve always pictured me?” Had I heard him right? Had he just admitted to fantasizing about me?
I searched his face for clues, but his expression had turned inward, contemplative. I wondered what was going through his mind. The intensity of his gaze had me tingling from my scalp to the soles of my feet. He continued to pump his fingers in and out, and I could feel a sweet rush building. He kissed me again, and at the same time, his free hand worked its way back under my shirt. He rubbed his fingertips across my nipples, and I bit my lip to keep from sighing.
“You like that?” he asked quietly.
“Absolutely.”
“And if I asked you to fuck me?”
A knot of pure lust shivered through me. Did he think I’d say no? Hell, I was ready to fuck him right now, preferably until we were sweating, screaming and raw. I angled my hips, taking his fingers deeper. “I’d be a good girl, of course. I’d even let you pick the position.”
“Is that right?”
My brows went up. He really had no idea. Joel represented my gearhead fantasy come to life. I’ve always found him deliciously attractive—him, and workingmen like him. Provider types. Men who work with their hands and aren’t afraid to get dirty and sweaty. Bonus kudos if they’re concerned about giving a woman pleasure.
Joel hit every one of my hot buttons, and if I had to guess, I’d bet there weren’t very many women who had ever said no to him. Big surprise. I wasn’t about to say no to him, either.
The sound of tires crunching over gravel drew my attention toward the road. Joel’s fingers went still, and he swore under his breath as a rusty red pickup truck pulled into the drive and parked next to my rental car. “It’s Ed Finch. Nice old guy, but he’s a talker.”
Joel nipped my earlobe and withdrew his hand from my panties. I let out a frustrated whimper. His expression was sympathetic as he took a step back and pulled his shirt down to help hide his erection. “Maybe we can pick this up again later. Think you can come back around seven-thirty?” He watched me reach down my shorts to rearrange my panties and raked his teeth across his lower lip. “I’ll make it good for you. I promise.”
“I hope you’re a man of your word,” I ground out. I was so turned on and tuned up I wondered how I’d drive home.
“Always.” Joel’s eyes skimmed over me with
such blatant desire it made me giddy.
Okay, fine. If he was up for a challenge, so was I. I agreed to meet with him later, and that was that. Joel wiped the hand that had just explored my pussy on a shop rag and started across the bay to greet the old man who was just now climbing out of the beat-up truck.
Let’s just say I’ve never been a fan of daylong anticipation. I was practically shivering with excitement by the time I reached Joel’s garage that night. I’d been in a crazy-horny state when I’d left his shop earlier that day, and since then I hadn’t been able to focus on anything but my approaching date with him. Now that I was here, it was a relief just to know he was close.
Joel waited for me in an open bay door. I turned off the headlights and climbed out of the rental car I’d been driving since I’d turned over my car for repairs. I locked up with the wireless key fob then headed in his direction, stopping briefly to give him a quick kiss before I ducked under the door.
While he closed us inside, I looked around as if surveying an alien landscape. I’d never been in the garage after-hours before. It was quiet and the air was surprisingly cool. My Stingray was parked in the same spot where I’d seen it earlier.
A single strip of overhead lights glowed throughout the shop. Without the old fan clattering near the back door, the air carried the faint tang of gasoline, grease and motor oil. Anticipation prickled my skin, and I was glad I’d worn an easy-access pinup dress to meet with Joel tonight.
The dress had no crazy buttons, no hard-to-reach zippers and I’d worn my clear plastic stripper shoes with it. Easy on, easy off. At any moment, I could simply kick off my shoes and pull my clothes off.
I turned around to see Joel doing just that. He was pulling his black T-shirt off over his head. Now that we were inside where there was better lighting, I noticed he had showered and changed into fresh clothes. He tossed his shirt onto the ledger stand and faced me. I hadn’t seen him shirtless since last summer when he’d been mowing the grass outside the shop. His pierced nipples instantly drew my attention. When had he gotten that done? I debated asking him, even as my fingers itched to play with those sexy silver rings. I let out a shaky breath.