He had cleaned the garage twice.
Mopped the floors. Wiped down the benches. Changed the bulbs.
He wasn’t waiting. At least that’s what he told himself.
But every hour, his eyes flicked to the door.
Every time he heard boots outside, his c**k twitched with the memory of her voice in his ear, her hand on his throat, her c**k inside him.
The mechanic — the man who once f****d women until they forgot their names — had been reduced to something raw and waiting.
And when the door finally creaked open again, the way it had a week ago, he didn’t pretend not to hear it.
She stepped in like the last time had never ended.
Same black boots. Same leather jacket. But this time, she had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
She dropped it on the table with a loud thud.
He stood there, hands cov
