Dirty Deeds (Mechanics of Love #3)

by Megan Erickson

  Her little hand had regripped the tire iron, and it’d been something of beauty to watch her steel herself to address him.

  But it was just a dinner, a way to pay her for the ride to the hotel, because he hadn’t seen any taxis around. So he’d eat and be polite and that would be the end of it.

  Her truck was old, the engine a little loud. But it was clean. When she lowered the visor to shield her eyes from the sun, he spotted a picture tucked into a pocket there. A woman and a little girl. The woman looked a lot like Alex, so she was either her sister or Alex was a lesbian who preferred women who looked a lot like her.

  Spencer really needed to get it together and quit making up shite about the woman beside him.

  Good Christ.

  Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her fingernails stained from the work she did every day on vehicles. Spencer had done everything he could—scratched, kicked, and clawed—to rise out of his life where those would have been his hands. Where that garage would have been his life.

  They pulled into a nondescript brick building and as Spencer stepped out of the truck, he eyed the dozen motorcycles in the parking lot. This was . . . what did they call it . . . a biker bar? He couldn’t be sure, but he felt incredibly out of place in his suit and tie. Of course Alex would take him somewhere like this—her turf. She was striding toward the door now and looked over her shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow. “You coming, Posh?”

  “Posh?”

  She gestured to him with a limp hand. “All dressed up with that accent.”

  He cocked his head. “So I’m automatically a stuck-up snob because I’m British?”

  Without missing a beat, she said, “And because of the way you turned up your nose at my shop. Now come inside and let’s eat, then I’ll send you on your posh way, Spencer.” She said his name with a little derision and he wondered what she would say if she knew his whole name.

  “Calm down, Sprite,” he said in response as he took off his jacket and tie and threw it into the seat of the truck. He slammed the door and walked toward her, the gravel of the lot crunching under his shoes. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows as she stared at him.

  “Sprite?” she asked.

  Those blue eyes. Did she know how round and bright and utterly bewitching they were? “Yes, Sprite.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re . . . ” He held out his hands and gestured up and down her body. “Small. Petite.”

  She stared at him.

  “Erm, like a little truck-driving, car-fixing fairy, I would say.” He sounded half-mad.

  She must have thought so too, because she hadn’t moved. She was a contradiction, this short little thing with her bright red lips, eyes dark with makeup, nearly black hair pulled up into a severe ponytail.

  “You’re weird,” was all she said before licking her lips and continuing toward the door of the pub. He followed, thinking this night was what was weird.

  IT’D BEEN A long time since he’d had some drinks and maybe it was his nerves or whatever, but after a half hour, he looked at the bottom of his empty pint and wondered how many he’d had. Because he was already slightly pissed and good Christ, when had he not been able to hold his liquor?

  They sat close together at a high-top bar table. The conversation between him and Alex was stilted at first, the tension from their parking lot altercation lingering.

  Why are you in town?

  For business. Do you like working at the repair shop?

  Yes.

  But now that they were both well lubed, Alex’s cheeks were rosy and Spencer’s blood was thrumming in his veins and the assortment of greasy pub food they’d ordered sat between them mostly untouched.

  Which should have been the first sign that his night was going to end up fucked.

  And now, Spencer wasn’t hungry anymore. At least, not for food. All he could think about was Alex’s knee pressed against his under the table, the way her bare arm brushed the hair on his forearm. The way she leaned close, those red lips wet and tempting.

  She reminded him a little of the women back home, the ones he grew up with. A little rough around the edges, where lately, he’d dated nothing but smooth.

  Alex, though . . . well, he wasn’t sure she was like any woman he’d ever met, even the ones he knew in England all those years ago. She had this inner sexual confidence radiating from her, a promise that she’d be the best he’d had in a long time, if not ever.

  He tried to remember why he was here, why it was important to keep his mind on his work, but it was bloody difficult with the alcohol coursing through him, fuzzing his head, and the heat of Alex’s body next to his.

  “How long you in town?” Alex asked.

  “I leave tomorrow. Been here several days.”

  She tilted her head. “And then where’s home?”

  “New York.”

  Alex hummed under her breath. “Of course Posh is from the city. I bet you live in a penthouse with a pet tiger and a baby grand piano.”

  Her assumptions were so hyperbolic that he knew she was taking the piss. “Leopard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My pet is a leopard. Leopold the leopard.”

  She paused for a minute as what he said soaked through her own alcohol haze, then she threw back her head and laughed. “Gold leash?”

  “Nothing less than twenty-four karat.”

  “I don’t even have a fish. Well, I used to, but then my niece thought it needed a burger. I think it tried to eat it and choked and died. Sad day.”

  The picture in the truck must have been her sister and niece then. He appreciated the bread crumbs that were helping him form the whole picture of his sprite.

  “I’m sorry about your fish.” He could feel his London accent slipping a little with the alcohol, his Manchester roots showing as he drew out his vowels a bit more than usual. This always happened when he didn’t have the mental capacity to keep up the ruse of a more posh accent, which was why he tended not to drink and excused himself from company before he grew too tired. But he didn’t think Alex would notice—or care.

  And maybe, the thin glass of Leslie Michael Spencer’s façade was starting to crack.

  Alex drained the rest of her beer and met his gaze steadily. She hadn’t moved away when he said he was leaving tomorrow. If anything, she had drawn closer, as if the time limit was exactly what she wanted.

  And really, why not? Why the fuck not, if they were both offering and they both knew the score?

  No heavy feelings, no complications, just heavy breathing and fun.

  Sitting in this bar with this intriguing woman, he wondered when the last time was he’d done anything he could classify as fun.

  Chapter Two

  SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING, and Alex wasn’t even sure what it was. But Posh had settled a bit, his accent changing slightly as the beer in his glass had been drained.

  She couldn’t stop staring at his hands. Right now, one was resting casually on the scarred tabletop, tapping along with the classic rock from the old jukebox in the corner. His other hand was rubbing his full lower lip back and forth. Back and forth.

  She wanted that finger to be hers. She wanted to feel those lips on the pad of her thumb, on her own lips.

  The last time she’d been with a man was . . . well, not too incredibly long ago. Ever since him, she relegated herself to casual, one-time hookups. Because while she liked the intimacy, she preferred it stay purely physical. She’d entwined her life with another man’s to the point it’d nearly broken her. She wasn’t the Alex she’d been before, and she knew now that she never would be. But she was okay with who she was now.

  And never again would she let a man change that.

  But this . . . this was perfect. Spencer’s voice was deep, and he was drawing out his words now, almost to the point she didn’t understand what he was saying, but what did it matter? He was here for one more night.

  She’d only ever been w
ith men who were just like her—worked with their hands, wore jeans and boots to work. Rough around the edges. Posh wasn’t rough. He was smooth and slightly untouchable with his pressed suit and shiny shoes and silver watch that probably cost more than her truck.

  But he was looking at her like he’d pawn his watch in a second to get into her pants. Well, he wasn’t going to have to pawn anything, because she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

  He paid for her dinner—even though she barely ate anything—as a thank-you, and she let him, watching those long tapered fingers flick a credit card out of his wallet and the efficient way he scribbled his name on the receipt. There were a couple of looped scratchings, then a big S followed by a squiggly line.

  “What’s your name?” She craned her neck and squinted at his signature, which was more like a doodle.

  He lifted his eyebrows at her. “Spencer.”

  “Yeah, but you got some chicken scratches before that big S there.”

  “I go by Spencer.”

  “Is that a British thing to go by your last name? Because—”

  “The initials are L. M. For my first and middle name.” He was slipping into Haughty Posh, but she wasn’t intimidated.

  She cocked her head. “What does L. M. stand for?”

  He hesitated. “Leslie Michael.”

  She made a strangled sound in her throat, trying not to laugh. “Leslie.”

  His scowl held no heat. “Leslie is a perfectly proper British name—”

  “I picture a little redheaded girl with pigtails and freckles when I hear the name Leslie.”

  He turned in his chair. “Are you quite done making fun of my name?”

  “Why do you go by Spencer?” She was poking him like a sore tooth, but she wanted to know just a little bit about the man she planned to get on her knees for. If he let her.

  His tongue snaked out to the corner of his mouth. “I’m not fond of Leslie.”

  “Good call, Posh.” She drained her beer. “Let’s go with Spencer. Not sure I could let a dude named Leslie stick his hand up my shirt.” She stood up, ignoring his widened eyes. “Ready?”

  He followed her outside, the clack of his expensive shoes a contrast to the clomp of her boots. She was hyperaware of his gaze on her back, like fingers down her spine. When they got to her truck, she reached out to open the door but the next second, a hand spun her around and a body pressed her up against the side of her truck.

  She looked up, up into the face of one turned-on Brit. Her knees nearly buckled.

  When they’d arrived at the bar, the sun was still setting, so she hadn’t thought to worry about where she parked. Now she realized she’d chosen a spot that the dim lights outside the bar didn’t reach. They were mostly in darkness, and she probably should have been afraid. Spencer was much taller than her, broader. His forearms were muscular, and she could see the roundness of his biceps under his shirt.

  But for some reason, she wasn’t worried. The only part of him that touched her was his chest brushing along hers. She’d worn a push-up bra today, and she cursed the padding that was separating her from rubbing her hardened nipples against him.

  His hand was braced on the side of the truck, the other hanging at his side in a loose fist. His entire body was tense as he stared down into her eyes.

  Slowly, very slowly, he lifted the hand at his side and settled it on her hip. Her tank top had ridden up so a strip of skin was bared between it and the top of her jeans. He ran his thumb along that strip of skin, watching her face. She got the impression he was waiting for her to say stop, or keep going, and she appreciated that.

  Although what did she expect from a man named Leslie Michael Spencer?

  She curled her tongue around her top teeth and lifted her chin. “You too posh to take what you want?” she whispered.

  He barked out a laugh. “I have to make the first move, do I?”

  She swallowed. “I’m pretty sure my invitation to stick your hand up my shirt was the first move.” She was proud of her chest, always had been. Dawn girls were blessed in the boob department, that was for sure, despite their small statures.

  His eyes dipped to her chest, then back up. “Hmm, I guess you’re right.”

  “Your move, then, Posh.”

  “This was my move. Not letting you get in the car, pressing my body to yours, showing you that I want you.” He emphasized that with a slight roll of his hips. “So, actually, it’s now your move, Sprite.”

  There were a lot of things about a man’s body Alex liked. Hands were one. Legs and asses were others. She’d seen glimpses of the muscles in his thighs flexing in his pants, the perfect shape of his ass, so now she decided she needed to feel too. She reached down with both hands, running her fingers up the back of his thighs, then cupped his ass. She pressed his hips to her, and he exhaled roughly. “Your move now,” she whispered.

  And move he did. His head descended and their foreheads bumped, his hair tickling her skin. And then she couldn’t feel anything, really, but both of his hands on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin and then his lips on hers. Those full lips that curled around his English words and called her “Sprite.”

  The man could kiss. His mouth opened on hers and his tongue was inside her, tasting her. He made a soft groaning sound in his throat and then he was pressing against her harder, the thick bulge in his pants rubbing along her belly, their height differences making this standing make-out session difficult. But Alex didn’t care, not when he was devouring her, not when she had the freedom to focus on the pleasure without the relationship—a relationship where she constantly wondered what would come next, what words he would use to hurt her, make her feel less than.

  With Spencer, this was all there was, and it was better than it’d ever been as she ran her hands up through that thick hair, threading her fingers in it, and angling her face so she could kiss him more, deeper, just more.

  She didn’t want to be standing anymore. She wanted to be somewhere she could spread her legs and welcome him between them. Where she could grind herself into that erection that was growing steadily, pressed up against her stomach.

  Damn this public parking lot.

  She pulled away, breathing hard, staring into his blue eyes. His lips were wet, glistening in the light of the moon. A fall breeze blew over her heated skin and she shivered.

  He raised his hands and ran them over the goose bumps on her arms, as if he wanted to warm her up. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Who are you, little Alex the mechanic?”

  He drew out the a in mechanic, making it a long vowel instead of a short one. She wanted to say that she wasn’t sure who she was anymore, that she was still learning who she was now since leaving the old Alex behind. All she did was shake her head and press her hands to the cool metal of the truck behind her.

  “It’s your move now,” he said.

  She licked her lips. “I’ve been meaning to see what the hotel rooms are like at the Tory Inn.”

  He smiled, and she thought they’d both played pretty strategically.

  ALEX LET HIM off at the lobby of the hotel and went to park her truck, so that by the time she was striding through the front doors, he had a key in hand and had already pressed the button to take them up the lift to the fifth floor.

  And by the time they reached his door, he was uncomfortably hard and all too aware of Alex at his back, the heat of her skin, the sound of her breath.

  The way those blue eyes never strayed from him.

  He dropped his bags beside the closet and turned around to face Alex as the door clicked shut behind her.

  She’d let down her hair, so now it fell around her shoulders in a mass of dark brown waves. A few strands caught in her eyelashes and she blinked them away. She stood the exact same way she had outside the garage—feet braced apart, hands loose at her sides. Her eyes were a challenge, not demure. She wasn’t playing coy or pretending to be an ingénue.

  No, they both knew if she was in his ho
tel room right now, she wasn’t that. Instead of seductive, her posture was powerful, confident, and fuck if that didn’t turn him on more than anything he’d ever seen.

  She licked her lips, the crimson stain still in place. “Whose move is it now?” she whispered.

  “Game’s over,” he said, drawing out the o on purpose.

  Alex smirked, then they each took a step forward and met in a crash of limbs and skin and clothes that needed to go right the fuck now.

  The taste of her was even better than it had been against her truck, because he didn’t have to hold back now. He gripped her head and tilted it back with his thumbs along her jaw. She let him as she dug her fingernails in the skin of his wrists, like, you may be in charge now, but that could change.

  She was tiny against his body, yet warm and coiled tight, like a spring.

  He coasted his hands down her arms and then rucked up her shirt beneath her breasts so he could get at the soft skin of her stomach. She sucked in a breath as his fingers skimmed along her ribs, across her belly, and around her navel.

  Her hands were on him too, working deftly at the buttons on his shirt. She made a frustrated sound in her throat then stepped back, whipping off her shirt to reveal a red lace bra. Her breasts were heaving, spilling over the cups, and then she was back against him, tugging his shirt over his shoulders and down his arms.

  In the next minute they were on the bed, him on top shirtless, her writhing below him, thrusting her hips into his. Her boots were off, somehow, and he toed his shoes off quickly as her fingers began to fiddle with his belt.

  He pulled down the cup of her bra to expose her breasts. She was well-endowed, more than a handful, and his mouth watered at the sight of her peaked nipple. He didn’t know what to do first. This was a buffet, and he was starving and everything looked so damn good that he was frozen in place. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered, sucking on the skin of her neck as he thumbed her nipple.