Page 24 of Lovingly Restored

“Happy now?”

She nods stiffly, apparently out of smart things to say.

With her on top of the big appliance, we’re eye level. She’s erased the scowl off her face. Or maybe I did that. It occurs to me that if our eyes are aligned, other parts are too, and that has blood rushing to my dick way faster than it should.

“Oh,” I say, slapping my forehead with my palm, “I almost forgot.”

I smirk as I lean toward her, reaching for the dial.

She glares. “Don’t you dare.”

I’m about to set the machine to rumbling right under her ass, and she knows it. Aware that the big appliance packs a punch. It isn’t some eco-friendly, whisper-quiet, new-fangled model. The burly beast vibrates its way right across the floor when it wants to. I look her dead in the eye and rotate the dial. The machine comes to life, filling the room with noise. The wet clothing thuds within the drum, the zippers and snaps clank on the metal. Even standing this close, you need to raise your voice to be heard.

“Get me off here, Isaac.” She tries to poke me in the chest, her signature move, but I block her.

She can’t slide down, not with the way I’m standing between her legs.

I cup my ear, “What’s that?” I’m almost yelling. “You want to get off? You want me to get you off, Ash?”

A grin spreads over my face at my play on words while she shifts around, the shuddering machine beginning to affect her. Her eyes flutter close, and I’m keenly aware of my hardening dick pressing against the buttons of my fly.

Fuck.

Does she have room in her precious schedule forself-care?Because she fucking needs it. Ashlyn is the most tightly wound twenty-something woman I’ve ever met. What would it be like to see her unravel? I consider that for a moment, growing jealous of a major appliance. It’s way too easy to picture her round ass squirming on my lap as she rolls closer to release. My fingers twitch at my side, eager to slide up her thighs and complement the oscillations beneath her. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly than normal, and my own breathing mimics hers. If I don’t get out of here, I’ll do something we, or at least she, might regret. The last thing I need is to give her a reason to contact my dad.

“Okay, ride’s over.”

I grab her around her waist again, the buzzing transferring through her body to mine. I mean to put her down right away. To deposit her back where she started and leave, laundry complete. But the delicious weight and warmth of her is hard to relinquish. Sliding her down the length of my body feels better than it should, and I’m acutely aware that she can probably tell how hard my dick is. Does she notice all the tension that’s been building between us this past week? She looks up at me, wet lips slightly parted, examining my mouth. The sweet sigh that passes over her lips brings me back to reality, and I let her go. She falls a couple inches to the ground, gasping in surprise at the sudden movement. She already expressed to me that she didn’t want to get involved likethat.If she changes her mind, great, but I’m not going to bully her into it like this. Stepping through the mess on the floor, I squeeze my way around the door. Escaping from the tiny room and the woman I’m quickly learning has more control around here than I care for. Whose house is this, anyway?

Chapter ten

Ashlyn

It’sone-partboredom,one-partcuriosity, and one-part palpable sexual tension that propels me toward his workshop. A couple weeks have passed since he first asked. Most women wouldn’t have lasted a day.

Ashlyn Carter: Paragon of Discipline.

Did other women get personal invites to Isaac Lauri’s workshop?

Weeds brush against my jeans as I trek through the overgrown yard. The workshop has a barn vibe going on, minus the red paint. One end of the building has double doors that open toward the garage. The weathered wood and single-pane sash windows look like something you’d see hanging in an overpriced vintage store. A carving above the door says: EST. 1965. So the workshop isn’t part of the original property, but was probably built by Isaac’s grandfather. The whine of heavy machinery cuts through the evening. Despite the cool air, I have to wipe my palms on my white fuzzy cardigan.

When I pull open the heavy door and step inside, the change in temperature is overpowering. Warm air rushes towards me as I take it all in. Hand-hewn plank flooring, thick rafters suspending strings of glowing industrial-style bulbs, the shelves cluttered with old-fashioned tools. The last light of day seeps in through the windows. I’d pictured a sparse and sterile work environment full of steel toolboxes and shiny wrenches with a cold cement floor. That’s what they always display on the home improvement shows. Everything new, top of the line. Instead, the space is cozy, and I immediately love it.

Isaac is bent over a modern table saw, tight jeans stretching across his behind. He raises his arms over his head, and my eyes are drawn to the inch of skin that appears. His jeans hang low on his hips, black boxer briefs sit flush against his lower back beneath the prominent muscles on either side of his spine. I’m a complete creep for noticing those are the same briefs he brandished at me in the laundry room. The workshop is a hell of a lot larger than the utility room, but I’m not sure it’s big enough to house the tension mounting between us lately. I can see the house through the window. That’s where I’m supposed to be. It was dumb of me to come. If I turn around and leave while the saw still buzzes, he won’t even notice. I turn on my heel, but because I have crappy luck, it stops. In the silence my ears ring. Even my own breathing seems loud.

“Making a break for it?” His deep, warm voice starkly contrasts the metallic whine of the saw.

“Nope, just got here.”

He looks me up and down, which is fair considering the once over I gave his backside. Why else did I change into these tight jeans and look in the mirror five times before I came out here unless to turn his head? Whenever he smirks at me like that I can barely look away.

“You’re gonna get dirty,” he says.

“P-pardon?”

“That white sweater is gonna get dirty in here.”

My brain is doing its damndest to turn this into some weird woodworking fantasy.

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