Page 31 of The Woman in the Garage

It was probably not the smartest idea to let myself continue to have vivid, sweaty, panty-soaking fantasies about a man who was—essentially—extorting money from my business. And one I would need to interact with on a semi-regular basis.

But if he didn’t want me to have naughty thoughts of him, he shouldn’t have made that comment about being in bed with me. Or given me his jacket, all warm from his body still. Or leaned in like he was going to kiss me.

A girl could only take so much.

Especially a girl who hadn’t been with a guy for more months than I cared to admit.

If I let myself drift into the fantasy just right, I could practically feel his silky hair teasing over my skin, creating little sparks of need; I could feel it in my hands as I grabbed him while his face was buried between my thighs, driving me up relentlessly.

I was helpless but to let my own hand wander, to imagine his in its place, to bring myself up and through an orgasm that had me crying out in my empty house.

But I still felt achingly needy afterward.

Because, as I got up and took myself to the shower, I knew that no amount of self-pleasure was going to measure up to the real thing.

Not that the real thing was going to happen.

It couldn’t.

I mean… right?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Santo

I hadn’t been counting down the days or anything.

That would have been pathetic.

Almost as pathetic as the way I took extra care to put myself together that morning, fussing over my damn hair, putting on my best watch, making sure I had cologne on because I’d noticed her taking little sniffs of my jacket when I’d put it on her.

I did manage to make myself wait until nearly lunchtime before I made my way over to the repair shop. And I absolutely didn’t do that with the hopes of maybe talking Dasha into go grabbing a bite somewhere.

Maybe my place.

In bed.

After spending an hour or two trying to break my headboard.

“Jesus,” I sighed, shaking my head at myself as I pulled into the parking lot.

“You again,” one of the mechanics said as I stepped into the waiting room.

“Me again,” I agreed. “Is Dasha here?”

I knew she was there. I saw her car parked to the side of the building.

“She’s in her office,” he said, nodding his head toward the door to the garage as he leaned over a clipboard to fill in some paperwork.

I wasn’t exactly happy about him letting a stranger walk into a woman’s office seemingly uninvited, but I liked being able to surprise her since I didn’t give her a day when I would be showing up.

Her door was cracked when I approached, so when I went to knock, it flew open.

There was a loud gasp, then a crash as Dasha shot up from her chair, sending it slamming back into the wall. The movement also sent a pile of paperwork and multiple colored pens fluttering to the floor and scattering around.

“Santo,” she gasped, her hand pressed to her chest.

That was… a strange reaction.

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