Page 53 of Dirty Mechanic
Still, I step forward.
Still, I say yes.
I yank him up by the collar until our mouths crash, an overexcited “Yes” falling between kisses.
His grin spreads, slow and sinful, across my lips. “Now,” he murmurs, voice thick, “are you ready to consummate this engagement?”
The tears come out of nowhere, hot and silent. I don’t sob. I just feel every ache, every year of what we missed, every piece of me that’s been clawing toward this man since the day I ran.
He doesn’t wipe them away.
He just lifts me into his arms and carries me across the gravel, straight to the back seat of his truck.
Somehow, he manages to flick open my bra with one hand and toss it toward the front seat while laying me down in the back.
I giggle, breathless. “Showoff.”
His jeans hit the floorboards with impressive speed. I don’t even know how—magic or muscle memory—but he’s out of them, kneeling between my legs, all golden skin and hunger.
And still, he’s slow. Intentional.
Like he has all the time in the world to worship the pieces of me I thought no one would ever touch again.
His lips trace a path up my stomach, each kiss a brand of heat. He pauses at my breast, sealing his mouth around the curve until my body arches, greedy for more.
By the time he reaches my face, I’m trembling. He cups my cheeks, breath brushing against my lips.
“I want to make love to you,” he murmurs, low and gruff. “But if you want me to stop, just say it.”
“I don’t want you to stop.” My voice is already wrecked. “I want all of it.”
For the first time, his touch doesn’t trigger flinching, but memory. Of love, not fear. Because in Derek’s hands, I’m not something broken. I’m wanted. Cherished. Chosen.
I rise to kiss him, fierce and sure, like I’ve forgotten how to be afraid.
His mouth moves over mine, deep and coaxing, threaded with hunger held back by sheer will. When his calloused fingers sweep across my skin, I gasp.
He notices. Smiles.
“Still sensitive there?” he asks, brushing a knuckle over the curve of my breast.
“Yes.” I can barely breathe.
His grin turns wicked. “Good. Means your engine’s already running hot.”
A breathless laugh escapes me. “Are you seriously using a mechanic metaphor right now?”
He shifts his weight, forcing me gently back against the seat with his hips. I feel him, hard and urgent, pressing against my thigh.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps, “I’ve been dying to strip you down and get under your hood since the day you walked into my garage.”
A moan spills from my lips.
His mouth claims mine again, deeper now, as his hand rolls my nipple between practiced fingers. He moves lower, trailing over my stomach, until his fingers part me, slow and sure.
“You’re soaked,” he groans, voice rough with need. “Tell me what you need, Honeycrisp.”
“You know exactly what I need,” I whisper.”
