Page 51 of Tuned To Break
“Not Jesus,” Jake murmurs against my neck. “Just the guy who’s gonna fuck you stupid the second I have you in a bed again.”
His fingers ease out of me with a wet, filthy sound that makes me blush. He licks one clean and groans like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“We’re going to ruin desks, benches, cars… every fucking thing.”
He pulls my skirt down gently, tugging my tank back into place, but his hand stays cradled around my throat for a moment longer—so light now, but no less possessive.
“I need to get back to the office,” I rasp.
He smirks, stepping back and adjusting himself through his jeans. “Good luck walking, boss.”
And just like that, he turns and strolls back toward his toolbox like he didn’t just finger-fuck me over his workbench and nearly short-circuit my brain.
I take a shaky breath, gather my discarded dignity, and begin the slow process of pretending I’m still in charge.
Spoiler alert: I’m not.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JAKE
Three weeks into Stella’s reign as Operations Manager and the workshop doesn’t just look different—it feels different. Cleaner. Sharper. More focused. There’s a rhythm now that didn’t exist before. Her new systems are slick, we haven’t had a single client complaint since the infamous paint disaster, and productivity is up thirty bloody per cent. Even José has started double-checking his work without being told—which honestly feels like a miracle on par with turning water into wine.
But the best part?
Watching Stella boss everyone around with that cool, competent tone while I quietly remember exactly what she sounds like when she’s falling apart under my fingers.
Yeah. Work has never been more distracting.
It’s Thursday arvo, and I’m behind the wheel of Mr Benson’s freshly restored ‘67 Mustang convertible, taking her for a spin around the block to make sure everything’s humming before delivery. The engine purrs like a satisfied cat, the transmission glides through gears like butter, and for a moment, everything is quiet and smooth.
Until I pull back into the workshop and spot her.
Stella.
Standing near the roller doors, clipboard in hand, hair loose around her shoulders in those soft waves that make me want to fist them while she moans my name. She’s wearing that fitted blue dress—the one that hugs every curve and makes it impossible to focus on anything else. Sunlight catches her, golden streaks glinting off her hair like she belongs in a car commercial… or one of the daydreams I’ve been having since the moment she walked through the gates.
I give the Mustang an extra rev, just to announce my arrival. Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. It’s heryou’d better not be showing offlook, but I catch the twitch of her lips as she fights a smile.
“How’d she run?” she calls, as I climb out.
“Like a bloody dream,” I say, tossing the keys between my fingers. “Mr Benson’s going to piss himself.”
“Gross,” she mutters, scribbling something on her clipboard. “Make sure you note the test drive results in the?—”
She’s cut off by Logan—our favourite overly dramatic bartender—jogging toward the garage like he’s just run a marathon in thongs. His hair’s sticking up everywhere, shirt untucked, face red and panicked.
“Stella! Thank God,” he pants, doubling over with his hands on his knees. “Emergency. Actual emergency.”
“Logan?” Stella greets, instantly alert. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“It’s Julia.”
“Who the hell is Julia?” I butt in, already sensing I’m going to regret asking.
“The girl I’ve been chasing for months. Blonde, smart, smells like vanilla and heaven. She finally said yes to coffee—today! But my car died in Grumpy’s car park, and I’ve got twenty minutes to get there, and I can’t get an Uber, and?—”
“Logan.” Stella lifts a hand. “Breathe.”
