Page 94 of Dirty Mechanic
Tears sting my eyes. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you everything sooner. I was scared—of what you’d think, of what it would do to us.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “We’re in this together, Annabelle. All of it. The good, the hard, the absolutely fucked. I’m not going anywhere.”
I follow him inside the RV like it’s the only place in the world that can hold what’s between us. My heart’s pounding, and the past is breathing down my neck. The air inside smells like dust and memory. The couch is still lumpy. The little lamp still flickers when you turn the knob just right. My breath catches in my throat as it all floods back. It’s different with him here. Warmer.
He turns to face me, his eyes unreadable.
“This is where it happened,” he says. “That night, I knew I could never let you go.”
I nod slowly.
He stares at me for a long moment. Then takes two strides and pulls me into his arms.
The kiss is hard and hungry, but beneath it is something else—grief, forgiveness, love. He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the same fold-out bed where he took my virginity all those years ago.
This time is different. But it’s also the same. Because it still means everything.
“I don’t care who asks,” he says against my mouth. “You’re my wife. If that divorce didn’t go through, we’ll fix it. I’ll marry you again—a thousand times over if I have to. Bishop can burn in hell.”
He kisses me again, like he’s sealing his words into a heated promise. Slow. Sure. Intentional. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly what it’ll do to me.
I pull away. “What about your grandfather’s trust? Your land?”
“I’ll figure it out. We have more important things to do now.” He tugs at the robe tie, a wicked and hungry smile lifting his lips.
He strips me with reverence, peeling away armor I didn’t realize I was still wearing.
“You’re a goddamn masterpiece,” he murmurs, kneeling between my legs, eyes burning. “Every part of you.”
He leans in and kisses my stomach, my hip, then lower, his breath ghosting over the center of me, hot and humid.
Then his tongue touches down, and everything else disappears.
My back arches.
His hands anchor my thighs wide, his grip firm but unhurried. Like he’s calibrating an engine, tuned to my exact frequency, learning every sound I make. Every gasp. Every cry.
He licks me slowly at first, deep and deliberate, building pressure. Testing tension. His tongue drags over my clit in long, lazy strokes, his mouth so skilled, I forget how to breathe.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, fisting the blanket underneath me, head falling back. “Derek?—”
“Right here,” he rumbles against me. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
He latches on, tongue circling, then flicking, his stubble scraping with just enough grit to keep me grounded. When he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, I shatter with a cry that echoes off the walls.
But he doesn’t stop.
He eases me through it, licking up every last tremor, like he’s savoring me—greedy and worshipful, all at once. By the time he rises over me, his lips glisten and his eyes are dark with need.
“You always did—taste like sin,” he growls.
My skin is flushed and sticky, but I want more.
I reach for him, dragging my nails up his shirt and down his chest, over the ridges of muscle and the old scar by his ribs. His cock brushes my thigh—hard, thick, ready—and I wrap my hand around him.
He shudders.
