Begging For Mercy

by Mataya, Tamara

  Her bed would work, but it’s too far away. Unfortunately, the garage wasn’t made for impromptu sex sessions. Tools and oily parts sit on every surface except the cold concrete floor, so I kick my clothes toward hers and lay her on top of the pile. Her arms and legs are muscular from working, but her curves are dangerous, the kind a man could lose his life going over with his hands and tongue, happily forgetting to come up for air.

  That she was wearing fancy, sexy underwear underneath her work overalls adds to the fantasy. She’s a sexy stereotype, every man’s dream ripped from the centerfold come to life, only she’s real and I’m inside her.

  “Hey.”

  I flick my gaze back up to her gleaming eyes. “What?”

  “My eyes are up here.” Her soft laughter clenches her muscles around my cock.

  Buried as deep as I can inside her, I grind my hips, rubbing the base of my shaft against her clit. Her moan turns into my name, and I love the way that sounds, so I drag myself out of her until I’m barely inside, then slowly back in, giving her everything I’ve got.

  And for a while I lose myself to everything except the way her nails rake up and down my back, and her moans and needy words urging me to go faster, harder, deeper. Our bodies play each other, vehicles of lust driving us higher toward release, building friction and pleasure between us. Her hands and mouth and body incinerate who I thought I was, changing me from her distraction to partner. It’s like she sees me when she looks at me.

  Those eyes smile up at me and I’m struck with the feeling that she can see everything.

  I could worship this woman.

  It’s too much.

  I pull out and she shudders.

  I take her by the hand and lead her to the wheeled dolly I kissed her on. “Kneel on it.”

  Seeing the potential right away, she lowers herself immediately, ass in the air. Christ that’s hot.

  Good, better to see her body than her face, see her as a fantastic fuck and draw the line there. I can’t keep that in sight when she’s looking at me like we have a future when I’m about to fuck everything up.

  I kneel behind her and the low platform is at the perfect level, giving her a couple inches to make up the differences in our height.

  “Grip the edge.” I grab her hips, spread her knees as far apart as they can go on the platform, and push back inside. With her holding tight to the top, I’m able to slide the dolly, using it like a sex swing to glide her on and off my cock, adding more force with my arms as well as my hips.

  Her pussy tightens, but she doesn’t come. On the next thrust in, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her up on her knees with her back pressed to my front. I slide one hand across her chest to stimulate her breasts and play with a nipple. My other hand sinks lower to rub her clit.

  Her head tips back to rest on my shoulder, and I can’t resist that gorgeous mouth, and lower my lips to hers. I want everything she can give me right now. Plunging in and out of her, I stroke her tongue with mine, thrusting harder without meaning to when she drags her teeth and nips my lip, making her gasp and moan into my mouth.

  Now, with my hands and mouth on her, impaled on me, she starts tensing and her hands reflexively grip my arms, holding on for another moment until her pussy clamps around me, milking my cock as I continue moving in and out a few more times before exploding inside her.

  She composes herself before I do, dropping her hands and using the dolly to roll off me. Her tight pussy hugs my cock like it doesn’t want to be separated and it’s enough to make me want to repeat the entire experience. Andy grabs a blue shop paper towel for both of us and cleans herself up. I use mine to slide the condom off then toss everything into a nearby trash can.

  Now that the haze of need has cleared, we both move more quickly to get dressed, realizing how exposed we are, throwing each other chagrined—though happy—looks.

  I’d bend her over that car again if she tweaked her finger, but the moment passes when she zips her overalls back up and smiles at me.

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  She leads the way to a small counter in the corner with a one-cup coffee machine, and slides onto one of the tall stools. I take the other, and she selects a pod. Neither of us speak before we each have a cup steaming in front of us.

  I roll the rich liquid over my tongue. “That was...”

  “Uh huh.” Andy sips from her cup.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. I want to do that again, preferably as often as possible.”

  She sets her coffee down. “But?”

  “But what?”

  “I felt a ‘but’ in there.”

  I wink. “No buts. Just ‘when’s.” I wish that were true, but these lies are kinder.

  She scratches the back of her neck. “Earlier you said, um. You missed me at a race?”

  Ah. That had sort of slipped out in the heat of the moment. Screw it. “The race wasn’t the same without you handing my ass to me. I won, but it wasn’t quite the same. What can I say? I want to beat the best.”

  Her creamy skin flushes, making it harder to see those freckles. “Well, no. If I’d been there, I’d have won. Because I am the best.”

  “Is that right?” I love her bravado. “What are you doing later?”

  “You want to hang out?” Uncertainty clouds her eyes, and I back up a bit, not wanting to scare her off.

  “Not now. I’ve got some things to do today. No pressure.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’d love to go for a ride—if you can keep your feet to yourself.”

  “No promises.” She licks the foam from the rim of her cup.

  Yeah, I’ve gotta get out of here. I’m not sure if dehydration from sex is possible, but this woman makes me want to find out. “Call me when you want to hang out.”

  “How’s the day after tomorrow sound?”

  So she’s not so unaffected. “Perfect. What time?”

  “I’ve got to get some work cleared up first. Someone put me behind schedule.”

  “The bastard.”

  “Mmm. What’s up? You seem a little tired.”

  “My brother’s in the hospital.”

  She sets her cup down with a clatter. “What happened to him?”

  I scrub my hands down my face. “Some asshole jumped him and beat the shit out of him. I was at the hospital yesterday, went again today to take him some food. He’s got some loose teeth, he’s... Shit, you don’t need to hear my family drama.”

  She seizes my hand in both of hers. “Is he okay?”

  I nod, deciding not to tell her it was the second time he was beaten up. That opens too large a can of worms.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I’m just not the good guy I keep telling you I am. Reality kills the fantasy I shouldn’t have allowed myself to wallow in. If she knew the truth about everything she’d never look at me the same way. “Look, I really hate to run after that”—I kiss her wrist—“but I should get some rest.”

  “You okay to drive? Because you can crash here if you want. You look exhausted.”

  That’s it. I stand and pull her into a hug. How can someone like her truly exist? She’s too perfect, sexy, considerate, and good. “I’m fine, but I will take a rain check on that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Only I’d better not be alone in that bed I crash in. And there probably won’t be much sleeping.”

  She smiles up at me. “Promise?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Andy

  Sunday dinners have been a staple in our family forever. Dad’s parents drilled into him the importance of family, and engaging with that family. There’s no television, music, games during dinner. Cell phones get turned off, and the house phone rings through to voicemail. When the rest of the week was chaos and we’d barely seen each other from school and work schedules, it was the place to check in with each other and reconnect. It still is. Dinnertime is family time.

 
I love it. Even though I hate what the men in my family have been doing lately, I still love them.

  Even today, with the swollen feeling of Something’s Up that I walk into as soon as I enter the kitchen, the last one to arrive.

  Patch immediately stops talking, his head jerking up guiltily when he sees me. “Hey, Andy.”

  “Hey.” I deposit the six pack I brought onto the counter; a fancy import they like that I bought to spoil them a little. Matt’s glorious effect on my body has bled out into my mood as well. “Got you guys a little something.”

  Dad grabs one and kisses my temple. “Thanks, kiddo. Way to add to my paunch.” He pats his still-flat stomach and I roll my eyes.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “Roast. Trying out that slow cooker you got me last year for Christmas.”

  “About time.” I’d figured it was a perfect way for him to eat healthier. He’s slim, but because he has a high metabolism—not because he eats properly. This way he can get some veggies into him without spending much time in the kitchen. Dad’s not one for prep time.

  Patch cracks open a can of beer. “What have you been up to?”

  “Not much.” I can’t say ‘screwing Matt’s brains out in the shop, thanks for asking,’ but there is one bit of news I’ve been saving for a moment like this. I open a beer of my own and lean nonchalantly against the counter. “Been working on a bike for a guy you might know. Temecula Frank?”

  The widening of Dad’s eyes and the sound of Patch choking on his mouthful are gratifying as hell. Score one for the lady!

  My bro recovers quickly and coughs to clear his throat. “What? When? Why you?”

  “Patrick!”

  Dad scolds him with a smile which isn’t good enough for me, so I pinch the back of Patch’s bicep where the skin is thin and sensitive. “Thanks, asshole!”

  He rubs his arm. “No, you know what I mean. That’s an awesome score for the shop. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us as soon as he walked in.”

  “I know! Apparently, news of my outstanding skills has spread far and wide and he wanted me specifically to work on his bike. He’s giving it to his daughter.”

  Patch shakes his head. “He’s letting you touch Lola?” He turns to Dad. “Wasn’t he inseparable from that bike?”

  Dad nods. “Used to be a running joke on the circuit that the seat was welded to his ass. Man won countless titles and races, but never traded in for a flashier bike.”

  The old bike probably hasn’t got an original part on her anymore—like the ship of Theseus—but replacing it would feel wrong. “I know how he feels. I couldn’t get rid of Green Goblin.”

  With those words, the warmth leeches from the room, and Dad and Patch start exchanging looks fraught with meaning.

  I ignore it and set the table. What am I supposed to say if they’re going to play this game where they shut me out?

  A little later, sometime between the salad and the pot roast, the tension radiating from Dad and Patch to me goes from uncomfortable to amusing. I shouldn’t find it funny, but the intense side-eyes they send back and forth become more and more cartoonish and ridiculous. Do they think I can’t see them? I hide a smile behind my napkin and focus on my carrots.

  If they want to pretend things are fine, I can do that too. “Nice roast, Dad.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you do something different with the seasoning?”

  He sets his fork down. “No, nothing different.”

  Patch clears his throat and stares pointedly at Dad, who picks up his fork and continues eating without saying what he was going to.

  Spearing the end of a purple carrot, I make a show of inspecting it. “I wonder what makes them purple. Do you guys know?”

  No answer.

  I take a big bite and chew it with a thoughtful expression. “Do I detect a hint of tarragon?” I wouldn’t know tarragon if it jumped from the spice rack and bit me on the ass.

  Dad shakes his head and takes a sip of beer. “No.”

  How can I screw with them next? “You know, tarragon is—”

  “You need to stop racing.”

  For a minute, I gape at Patrick. “Dream on.”

  Dad puts down his fork for good. “We didn’t want to tell you, but...”

  Oh my god, is one of them dying? “What?” My pot roast threatens to reappear. “Tell me what? Are you guys okay?”

  Dad puts his fork down. “There have been threats.”

  I look from one to the other, waiting for the punchline because this has to be a joke. “What kind of threats?”

  Patch swallows. “Personal ones. Against you.”

  Dad takes my hand. “It’s the reason we wanted the shop in his name instead of yours. We thought if people knew they couldn’t hurt you through the shop, then it would keep you safe.”

  “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

  Dad frowns. “Andy—”

  “No! Anyone who knows me knows my family is important to me. Do you honestly think that would stop someone? They’d know I was still working at the shop anyways—and living there—and screw with it regardless. How was that going to solve anything?”

  Patch slams his fist to the table. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

  Is he serious? “Uh, I have a fabulous idea. Call the cops and tell them about the threats.”

  “It wouldn’t help.” Patch crosses his arms.

  “Everything at the shop is completely legit, there’s nothing they could find there if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Dad sighs. “We did call the cops. They said there’s nothing they can do at this point since no one’s got a reason to hurt you or the garage, and since there’s no real suspect.”

  Oh.

  “It’s why I’ve been coming with you to races. It wasn’t just business as usual—we’ve been worried about whoever it was making good on their threats.”

  I swallow. “What were they, exactly?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Dad shakes his head.

  “You know what I think? I think they never intended on carrying through with the threats at all. It sounds like some douchebag who got his boxers in a bunch because I beat him one too many times and his fragile ego couldn’t handle it.”

  Patch tries and fails to take a sip of beer—his can’s empty. “You’re not racing anymore and that’s final. It’s too dangerous.”

  My eye twitches once, and I take three deep breaths before answering. “It wasn’t dangerous the other night when I did it.”

  “What?” Dad’s voice is dangerously flat.

  “I raced. Alone. And it turned out just fine.” I lost, but the Matt-assisted multiple orgasms that night more than made up for it.

  “It’s not worth it, Andy. Your brother’s right.”

  “We’re not just talking about safety. We’re talking about giving in to some asshole who wants us scared. How can that be a good thing in any world? This isn’t about fighting, necessarily. It’s about refusing to live in fear. Refusing to hide myself away because someone might do something to me. Should I wear body armor as well? A bulletproof vest?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  I glare at Patch. “No. I’m being practical. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a woman in the modern world? Every time I leave the house, society has taught me that I’m at risk. I’m the weaker sex, born to be used and abused. Fuck that. I am not a walking victim and I refuse to live cowering in terror, shrinking from every bump in the night. I’ve fought damned hard to get where I am now, and no asshole with a pre-paid cell phone is going to take that away from me.”

  Dad’s expression is sad, like he’s never realized the struggles I’ve had, despite me telling them about the things I face as a woman. “It was just an idea, sweetheart. We never said it was a good one, but it was the best we had.”

  A piece of roast on my plate is the victim of my ire and I stab it viciously with my fork. “You know what else is j
ust an idea? Security. Locks don’t keep the bad guys out, they only give the illusion of safety. Maybe they get rid of some crimes of opportunity, but if someone really wanted to get into the shop and hurt me, they would. Locks be damned. Don’t fool yourself into thinking your harebrained schemes are making me safer.”

  Dad scrubs his hands down his face. “I’m never going to get another good night’s sleep again, am I?”

  “I’m in no more danger now than I was a year ago. Only now someone’s being a smartass. Do you know who it was?”

  Patch scowls. “Not yet.”

  “When did these threats start?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  I shrug. “We can’t assume anything, especially with no proof. And if there’s one thing these guys need to know? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Stubborn ass.” But the words are delivered with a grudging gleam of pride in Dad’s eyes.

  “You both need to realize that, too. If living with you two in my life has done anything, it’s made me tough. It’s taken years to get the shop to where it is now—and how much better is it going to get when word of Temecula Frank using us gets out? We can’t let some asshole who’s probably all talk make us shake in our boots and cash in.”

  Maybe one of the racers got mad at me, but Matt’s got my back. And I’m not going to let Dad and Patch’s paranoia infect my confidence in myself. I mean look at Matt—his family is awful, and he’s managed to turn out to be one of the good guys.

  He’s more like me than anyone I’ve dated. My ex broke up with me because he couldn’t handle the thought of me racing. He saw one too many bruises from a competitor and that was it for him. And there aren’t many guys who can handle their girlfriend knowing more about motors and cars and racing than they do.

  I don’t want to ever be with someone who sees me as nothing more than a pretty little thing that needs to be protected from the life I want to live. The life that makes me not only breathe, but gasp. I want excitement and adrenaline and someone who isn’t threatened by me being myself. Maybe that’s why Matthew’s so appealing. He knows motorbikes, loves racing, and doesn’t hold back with me like I’m a china doll.