The Cocky Cage Fighter Six Book Box Set
Page 137
Later that night, I pass out from exhaustion after Becca gives me a ride home for the second day in a row. Tomorrow, I vow to take my ass over to the auto shop and get my car, fixed or not since I didn’t hear a word from the jerk mechanic today.
…
The next day at work, I also earn every penny John pays me. It was one crisis after another with an old, snooty client getting arrested for shoplifting again to get her rich husband’s attention, a client who didn’t show up to court and a federal agent calling, wanting to meet with another one of our extremely guilty clients. It was a lovely day. By the time I got to leave an hour late, I had forgotten about my car being in the shop, until I stepped out into the back parking lot and noticed it missing, along with everyone else’s car.
Huffing out an annoyed breath because I haven’t gotten any updates on the shop’s progress on my baby, I walk back through the alley and cross the two blocks that take me to Andrews’ Auto Shop, hoping I’m not too late. Outside the brick building, all three garage doors are lowered, but the door knob easily turns in my hand. Opening up, I call out, but get no answer. The front lights in the receptionist and waiting area are out, but the ones in the garage are on. I hear rock music coming from the same direction, so I start that way. I go past a car raised up on the lift, and then I come to an abrupt halt, unable to move another step when I see him.
Too jaw-dropping gorgeous to be real, his thick, golden hair is mussed and messy, and a hint of stubble runs along his chiseled jaw. From my profile view of his shirtless body several feet away, his smooth bulging muscles, obviously carved from granite, are covered in sweat, shining like a beacon of sexiness as he works underneath the hood of a car. Never before has sweat looked so sweet, nor the sight of a man ever been this absolutely delectable. Maybe it’s all the remnants of car fumes getting to me, but I feel lightheaded when a scorching hot inferno suddenly ignites somewhere deep inside. Unfamiliar liquid heat burns through me, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
Lord Jesus, there’s a fire…In. My. Panties.
Chapter Three
Lawson Andrews
Fuck me, it’s hot. It’s only the first of May, but the great thing about the state of North Carolina is that it can go from winter to summer and back again within a week. Forget spring and fall. Those comfortable seasons are usually skipped right the fuck over. So, year round I’m either freezing my balls off or my balls are sweating like a dirty whore in church.
Since the shop’s been closed for an hour and all my guys have gone home for the day, I unzip what used to be navy colored coveralls, but are now mostly black with oil and grease stains, and shrug out of the sleeves to lower the drenched material to my waist. Relieved at the cool air now hitting my chest and back, I pick up my wrench and go back to work. Or I try to, but the unexpected sound of a woman muttering something about a fire over the radio interrupts me.
“We’re closed,” I huff over my shoulder without even sparing her a glance. “And you’re not supposed to be back here.” Dumbass Todd must have left the door unlocked again when he hurried his ass out of here. That idiot is gonna get me robbed one of these days.
“But…but I…”
Slinging my wrench down hard enough to make it clang loudly on the cement, clearly demonstrating my annoyance, I turn around to see who the hell…
Holy. Fucking. Shitballs.
It’s a girl. Not just a girl, but a really hot girl with long, sandy blonde hair and big blue eyes. My own eyes are instantly drawn down her bangin’ body that’s covered in a fancy white dress, revealing thin but toned arms and long, lean legs encased in the same color high heels with a sexy, strappy thing around her ankle.
My first thought is it would be so fucking fun to dirty her up.
My second thought is I have a girlfriend.
Wait, I have a girlfriend? And what the fuck? Right now I can’t even remember her name. It starts with a K, and we’ve been seeing each other for over six months, living together for two or three maybe?
Fuck. I scrub my grubby fingers through my hair to see if there’s a knot where I obviously busted my head on the hood of a car. Not feeling any lumps, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on except I sure as shit need to remind myself, and my overexcited cock, that I have a girlfriend.
“G-good for you, and, um, her too, I guess, but I’m looking for my car, not a boyfriend,” the woman says slowly like I’m a dumbass. Shit, I must’ve said that last comment about having a girlfriend aloud. Maybe I am an idiot or going senile at thirty, because I can’t even remember my girlfriend’s name. Kelly? No. Kristina? Uh-uh. And then it finally hits me. Katrina. Whew. I swipe a hand across my forehead to wipe the sweat off before it drips into my eyes, likely leaving an oil streak across my face now that I think about it.
“Which car?” I eventually ask the woman once I get myself under control. Mostly.
“The, ah, El Camino,” she responds at the same time her ivory cheeks redden. Laughter erupts from my big mouth before I can help myself. The guys and I have had a helluva good time joking about the classic car with a missing door, especially after we found out it belonged to a chick. Never in a million years would I have guessed that it belongs to this woman. The BMW with a broken AC? Sure. The Mercedes with the oil leak? Yeah. But the nineteen seventy-two El Camino? It’s un-fucking-believable.
“Is it ready or not?” she huffs, puffing out her chest. Those perfect handfuls of tits are so nice that I start to forget the name I just worked so hard to remember. Katrina. I’m a horrible boyfriend. Thank fuck women can’t read men’s minds or they would never talk to any of us again.
“Yeah, it’s not ready,” I tell her, and then have to clear the gravel from my throat.
“It’s not?” she asks, her face falling in a way that makes my chest ache.
What the everloving fuck?
Am I having a heart attack or some shit? I try to rub the strange sensation from my left pec, but all I do is end up spreading more filth across my skin since I forgot that my coveralls are still pulled down. This chick is throwing me off my game, making me forget that I’m exhausted, overworked, underpaid and haven’t been laid in over a week by the woman who lives with me and sleeps in my bed every night. Therefore, I’m all out of fucks to give her or anyone else for that matter.
“Did we call you? Nope, didn’t think so,” I say to be a jackass, because that’s what I am, dammit. I will not have some chick waltz in here and make me go soft. Although, thanks to her, there’s nothing soft about my neglected cock at the moment, and that’s so messed up.
“Fuck,” she mutters. And hearing the curse, that word in particular fall from her ruby red lips makes the aforementioned cock jerk inside my now too snug boxer briefs.
“Watch your mouth,” I tell her with a smirk, remembering when she gave me the same line over the phone two days ago. “Or do you want a spanking?” Her gasp of surprise echoes across the big concrete room.
Motherfucker. Why did I say that shit? Clearly I’ve lost my mind.
“You wouldn’t,” she says so softly I barely hear it. And, hell, there’s only one way to make me do something, and that’s to tell me not to.
“Oh, I would,” I warn her, even if I am all talk. “Try me.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart lives in North Carolina with her husband, author D.B. West, their two daughters, a few lazy cats and a pair of rambunctious Pomeranians. When Lane's not writing she spends her free time relaxing at the beach while looking for sea turtles in the summer months and cheering on the Carolina Panthers in the fall.
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