The next day, it wasn’t because Grey drove badly that Dylan squirmed in his seat all the way to town. The only automobile he owned was the beat-up old GMC that served as his dog truck. She was a contrary b***h, but Grey seemed to manage her well enough. He handled the stiff clutch, the ragged idle, and the lack of power steering with aplomb, like he seemed to do damn near everything.
Talk about the Midas touch. Damn guy could fall in the cesspool and come out smelling sweet and looking clean as a whistle. Is that what being upper crust does for you?
The real problem was, Dylan didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t get that f*****g cast off today. He’d wakened this morning with his c**k cushioned between the cheeks of Grey’s ass, stiffer than a poker and wanting nothing more than to find
