Page 45 of Tuned To Break
“Jake,” she breathes, “someone might see.”
“Everyone’s busy,” I murmur, kissing along her jaw. “And you look so fucking sexy in that outfit.”
“This is so unprofessional,” she protests, but she’s arching into me.
“Completely unprofessional,” I agree, hands sliding down her waist. “But I can’t help myself around you.”
I press her more firmly against the bench. She gasps as her back hits the metal. My hands roam over her body, and when I kiss her neck, she lets out a soft moan that goes straight to my cock.
“We should stop,” she whispers, fingers sliding into my coveralls, tracing the lines of my chest.
“Should we?” I nip her earlobe.
“Yes, we should—oh, fuck.”
I’ve found that spot on her neck that makes her knees weak, and I take full advantage, sucking gently while my hands explore her curves. She’s so responsive, so perfect, and having her pressed against my workbench is fulfilling fantasies I’ve had for weeks.
“Jake, I—oh no.”
I pull back to see what’s wrong, and that’s when I notice the grease stains on her pristine white tank top. My hands, apparently not as clean as I thought, have left distinct fingerprints on the fabric.
“Shit.” I grin, not even sorry. “Sorry about your top.” I apologise, although there is a hint of amusement in my voice.
She looks down and laughs. “Well, that’s one way to mark your territory.”
“I could say it was an accident.”
“Could you?” she asks with a raised eyebrow. “Because it looks suspiciously like you grabbed me right… here.” She taps the evidence.
“Maybe I got a little carried away.”
“A little?” She tries for stern, but I can see the laughter in her eyes. “Jake, this is brand new. I bought it specifically for my first day as Operations Manager.”
“And now it’s been christened. About time one of your white shirts got a little dirty. I’ve got fantasies of you covered in grease—it’s hot as fuck.”
“That’s not how christening works.”
“Isn’t it? Because I distinctly remember christening you against this workbench just now.”
She blushes. “You’re terrible.”
“And you love it.”
“I do not love—” She stops mid-sentence, and I can see her realising what she almost said.
“You do not love what?” I prompt with a grin.
“I do not love that I’m going to have to change shirts and explain to everyone why I have grease stains all over me.”
“Tell them you were inspecting the workspace and got too close to the equipment.”
“Is that what we’re calling you now? Equipment?”
“Well-maintained, high-performance equipment,” I say with a wink.
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re beautiful. Even with grease stains.”
