by Lane Hart
“We’re closed,” I huff over my shoulder without even sparing her a glance. “And you’re not supposed to be back here.” Dumbass Todd must have left the door unlocked again when he hurried his ass out of here. That idiot is gonna get me robbed one of these days.
“But…but I…”
Slinging my wrench down hard enough to make it clang loudly on the cement, clearly demonstrating my annoyance, I turn around to see who the hell…
Holy. Fucking. Shitballs.
It’s a girl. Not just a girl, but a really hot girl with long, sandy blonde hair and big blue eyes. My own eyes are instantly drawn down her bangin’ body that’s covered in a fancy white dress, revealing thin but toned arms and long, lean legs encased in the same color high heels with a sexy, strappy thing around her ankle.
My first thought is it would be so fucking fun to dirty her up.
My second thought is I have a girlfriend.
Wait, I have a girlfriend? And what the fuck? Right now I can’t even remember her name. It starts with a K, and we’ve been seeing each other for over six months, living together for two or three maybe?
Fuck. I scrub my grubby fingers through my hair to see if there’s a knot where I obviously busted my head on the hood of a car. Not feeling any lumps, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on except I sure as shit need to remind myself, and my overexcited cock, that I have a girlfriend.
“G-good for you, and, um, her too, I guess, but I’m looking for my car, not a boyfriend,” the woman says slowly like I’m a dumbass. Shit, I must’ve said that last comment about having a girlfriend aloud. Maybe I am an idiot or going senile at thirty, because I can’t even remember my girlfriend’s name. Kelly? No. Kristina? Uh-uh. And then it finally hits me. Katrina. Whew. I swipe a hand across my forehead to wipe the sweat off before it drips into my eyes, likely leaving an oil streak across my face now that I think about it.
“Which car?” I eventually ask the woman once I get myself under control. Mostly.
“The, ah, El Camino,” she responds at the same time her ivory cheeks redden. Laughter erupts from my big mouth before I can help myself. The guys and I have had a helluva good time joking about the classic car with a missing door, especially after we found out it belonged to a chick. Never in a million years would I have guessed that it belongs to this woman. The BMW with a broken AC? Sure. The Mercedes with the oil leak? Yeah. But the nineteen seventy-two El Camino? It’s un-fucking-believable.
“Is it ready or not?” she huffs, puffing out her chest. Those perfect handfuls of tits are so nice that I start to forget the name I just worked so hard to remember. Katrina. I’m a horrible boyfriend. Thank fuck women can’t read men’s minds or they would never talk to any of us again.
“Yeah, it’s not ready,” I tell her, and then have to clear the gravel from my throat.
“It’s not?” she asks, her face falling in a way that makes my chest ache.
What the everloving fuck?
Am I having a heart attack or some shit? I try to rub the strange sensation from my left pec, but all I do is end up spreading more filth across my skin since I forgot that my coveralls are still pulled down. This chick is throwing me off my game, making me forget that I’m exhausted, overworked, underpaid and haven’t been laid in over a week by the woman who lives with me and sleeps in my bed every night. Therefore, I’m all out of fucks to give her or anyone else for that matter.
“Did we call you? Nope, didn’t think so,” I say to be a jackass, because that’s what I am, dammit. I will not have some chick waltz in here and make me go soft. Although, thanks to her, there’s nothing soft about my neglected cock at the moment, and that’s so messed up.
“Fuck,” she mutters. And hearing the curse, that word in particular fall from her ruby red lips makes the aforementioned cock jerk inside my now too snug boxer briefs.
“Watch your mouth,” I tell her with a smirk, remembering when she gave me the same line over the phone two days ago. “Or do you want a spanking?” Her gasp of surprise echoes across the big concrete room.
Motherfucker. Why did I say that shit? Clearly I’ve lost my mind.
“You wouldn’t,” she says so softly I barely hear it. And, hell, there’s only one way to make me do something, and that’s to tell me not to.
“Oh, I would,” I warn her, even if I am all talk. “Try me.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Lane Hart lives in North Carolina with her husband, author D.B. West, their two daughters, a few lazy cats and a pair of rambunctious Pomeranians. When Lane's not writing she spends her free time relaxing at the beach while looking for sea turtles in the summer months and cheering on the Carolina Panthers in the fall.
Connect with Lane:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WritingfromHart
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/lanehartbooks
Website: http://www.lanehartbooks.com
Email: [email protected]
Find all of Lane’s books on her Amazon author page!
