Page 54 of Dirty Mechanic

He groans, filthy and full of bite.

One hand strokes between my thighs while the other cradles my neck. He slides his fingers into me, deep and slow, drawing a shudder from my spine.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he whispers against my jaw. “Gonna do this right. Slow. Yeah?”

I nod, already dizzy.

When he finally sinks into me, it’s slow and deep and devastating. He holds still, like he needs a second to take it all in. Like he’s engraving the feel of me into his soul.

“Goddamn,” he breathes. “You feel like home.”

We move together in a rhythm that’s as old as us, slow and aching and honest. His hands roam like they can’t choose what part of me to memorize first. My name is a whisper on his lips, over and over.

He shifts, lifts my leg over his hip, and drives deeper. Harder.

“Just like that,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”

He kisses me again, rougher now, needier. Like he’s coming undone and needs me to fall with him.

“Not stoppin’,” he growls. “I’ve got years to make up for. I’m nowhere near done with you.”

When he pulls out, I nearly sob at the loss. But then he flips me onto my stomach, kisses blazing a trail down my spine.

“You good?” he asks, his palm firm at the small of my back.

“God, yes.”

He tilts my hips and slides back into me with a groan that sounds like worship.

“Could tune an engine with how tight you are, baby.”

I brace against the door, my hand pressed to the fogged window. “Then do it. Wreck me.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

He pounds into me with purpose, each stroke hard and deep, laced with all the things he can’t say. My fingers claw at the seat as my body spirals into a helpless frenzy.

When release finally hits, it knocks the breath from my lungs. I come with a cry that sounds like a plea and a promise rolled into one.

Derek follows with a growl, hips locked to mine, fingers digging into my waist like he’ll never let me go. His body shudders behind me, spilling warmth, his weight folding over my back before he shifts us gently sideways.

He pulls me onto him, my head finding its home on his chest. Our skin is slick. Our hearts are still racing. His cock still pulses against my thigh, a slow, satisfied thrum.

His hand traces lazy circles along my spine, each pass soothing something jagged inside me.

“Damn,” he mutters, voice thick and reverent. “You short-circuited me.”

I laugh, muffled against his chest. “Is that a mechanic euphemism for coming too hard?”

He groans. “Don’t make me regret telling you I think in engine metaphors.”

I press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “You started it.”

“Pretty sure you begged me to wreck you.”

“And you did.” I stretch, boneless and warm. “Thoroughly. I’m going to walk like I lost a bar fight.”

“Good.” His voice dips, wicked and low. “You bent over like that, moaning my name? That’s the kind of memory that keeps a man awake at night.”