Page 24 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

Remy finally clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Sorry about the shake. I thought you might need something to cool you down in this heat,” he tells the wall, which he’s been staring at intently since he turned away from me.

“That part was a success, at least,” I offer. Although my body is anything but cool. “Is there a sink somewhere? As much as I appreciate the shake, the delivery leaves much to be desired.”

Remy huffs, throwing me a glance. He combs his fingers through his hair, which leaves pink streaks through the strands. There’s milkshake mashed into his beard from where he face-planted at my feet. My lips really want to twitch, but I’m still too shocked.

His hand was on my breast. I felt the heat of it against my nipple. My pulse pounds.

With a deep breath, Remy turns for the door. He steps carefully over the threshold and glances back. “The bathroom’s on the other side of the garage,” he says, “but the water pressure’s bad. There’s a hose out back.”

“Oh, goody. I love getting hosed down.”

“What?” Remy stumbles on a flat piece of concrete.

“Nothing. Lead the way!” I try to sound bright, but I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on my hip, the rough touch of his hand on my chest. My nipples are hard, even in the heat of the garage.

I’m a bit wobbly as I follow him out the back door, where he leads me to what looks like a car-washing area. There’s a huge hose looped on a rack on the wall. Remy unhooks a few loops and turns the knob before handing the end of the hose to me.

I press the sprayer and immediately stumble back at the sheer power of the thing. “Um,” I say, staring at the end of it. “I’m not sure this is going to work.”

“Here.” Remy twists the sprayer so it’s more of a mist, then lets me have it again. I test it once and, satisfied that I’m not going to power wash my skin off, I point it at my sticky chest.

I can’t help the sigh of relief that slips through my lips. The water is cool, refreshing, and perfect. Remy turns away and stares at the far end of the lot like there’s something fascinating happening between the weeds and gravel. Then, abruptly, he turns for the garage’s back door.

“I’ll go grab something to dry off with,” he says, his voice sounding slightly strained. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

EIGHT

REMY

I’m such an idiot. A colossal, unbelievable idiot.

I was trying to do something nice. The milkshakes from Harold’s Diner are legendary and have been since 1968. I figured I’d buy a couple as a nice gesture. It’s hot as hell in the garage.

Maybe, in some strange recess of my mind, I wanted to share that little piece of myself with Audrey. I wanted her to enjoy one of the milkshakes that have become like a soothing balm to my soul. Why, I have no idea.

Instead, I walked in on her wearing just a skimpy sports bra, and the connection between my brain and my legs malfunctioned. As I stomp to the office and survey the evidence of my clumsiness, I can’t quite dispel the heat that’s flooded my veins.

Her body—

No. I won’t think of her body. This isn’t like me. I’ve been with plenty of attractive women. I don’t get tongue-tied and clumsy at the sight of someone wearing workout gear.

Until today, apparently.

I grab the clean cloths I’d dropped on the desk and rummage through one of the storage bins in the garage, but I can’t find anything that isn’t caked in grease. So, it’s with a measly stack of microfiber cloths that I reemerge into the sunshine, intending to drop them on the concrete beside the hose and retreat back to the relative darkness of the garage until Audrey’s done.

Instead, I stop dead.

She’s hosed herself down and now has her hair undone, wetting the ends of it and frowning as she works the milkshake remnants out of it. The whole front of her body is wet and glistening, and where it isn’t glistening it’s clad in black spandex that’s stuck to her body like it was painted on.

Her nipples are hard points, poking through the fabric of her bra. I want to put my mouth all over her.

All the blood in my body rushes between my legs, and I stand rooted to the ground until she looks up and sees me. Her pale green eyes widen slightly, and then her lips curl into a wry smile.

“I’m done,” she says, like she isn’t standing in the sunlight like my fantasy come to life. “Here.”

I take the hose from her proffered hand and clear my throat. “Thanks.”

As I strip the top half of my soiled coveralls off, I turn away. But when I start washing off sticky, half-dried milkshake from my arm and leg, I catch movement in my peripheral vision.

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