Page 64 of Dirty Mechanic

And just like that, I do.

He brushes a damp strand of hair from my cheek and murmurs, “Let me take care of you.”

Before I can answer, he’s already moving, scooping me into his arms like I weigh nothing, like he can carry the world as long as I’m in it. One arm behind my knees, the other beneath my back. His chest is warm against mine, heartbeat steady as thunder beneath my palm.

He carries me into the bathroom. The tile is cool beneath my thighs when he sets me gently on the counter. The light is dim. The faucet hisses as he wets a cloth under warm water, his eyes never leaving mine.

The first swipe of the cloth between my legs makes me shiver. Not because it’s cold. Because of him. Because this is gentleness wrapped in reverence. Care disguised as devotion. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush.

“You didn’t have to,” I whisper, throat tight.

“I wanted to,” he says, voice low and husky, like his chest can’t contain the weight of what he feels. “You gave me everything. Let me give it back.”

When he’s done, he drops the cloth into the sink, but he doesn’t back away.

He leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. Then another, higher. And another, trailing upward with agonizing tenderness.

“Derek…”

He slides my legs apart with a groan that feels like it’s been building since the day we met. Steps between them. His hands curl around my hips and draw me to the edge of the counter.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmurs, voice dark with hunger and thick with love. “I want to feel you again. Hear you. Watch you come undone.”

My fingers tangle in his hair as his mouth crashes to mine. This kiss is edged with rawness. Brimming with hunger. Like we’re both starving for something we only just found.

He pushes inside me with a sharp gasp, and I arch against the mirror, thighs clamped around his waist.

It’s fast this time. Frantic. Filthy.

Hands grip. Teeth graze. Skin slaps skin. The mirror fogs behind me as we chase that sharp, breathless edge of surrender together. His hands roam, greedy and grounding. Mine clutch at his back, the muscles beneath flexing like a machine fine-tuned to wreck me. And God, I want to be wrecked.

But even here, caught in the chaos, it’s more than lust.

It’s us.

It’s trust.

It’s the wild, aching truth that I’ve finally been found.

When I fall apart, it’s not gentle. It’s shattering. My name is a sob on his lips as he follows, both of us clinging to something we can’t name, but refuse to ever let go.

Sometime later, we collapse into bed again, breathless, boneless, and tangled in sheets that now smell like flour and sin. We didn’t just say vows—we lived them, sweat-slick and sugar-sticky, in the small hours of morning. The last thing I remember is the steady thump of Derek’s heart against my back and his hand curved protectively over my belly.

Morning arrives too quickly, and sunlight spills across the floor in golden streaks, warming the worn wood beneath our bare feet. The smell of browned butter and cinnamon rises from the oven, curling through the house. Derek whistles off-key as he wipes his hands on a tea towel, and I chase him around the kitchen with a flour-dusted spoon, both of us sticky with pie filling and smug happiness as we box pies.

He wipes batter off my chest with the corner of his shirt. I pretend to scold him. He pretends to behave.

The kitchen is a wreck. Bowls everywhere, countertops dusted in sugar and dough, and a trail of apple peels leading to the sink. But our laughter echoes louder than the mess.

It feels like home.

By mid-morning, the pies are boxed, the last one cooling on the windowsill as Derek loads the truck bed with practiced ease. We pack up tea towels, crates, and signage, my nerves buzzing louder than the cicadas outside. I used to bake in silence. Now, the kitchen hums with music I never knew I needed—his laughter, our footsteps, the rhythm of something real.

As I slide into the passenger seat, he leans across and buckles me in like it’s second nature. The road into town winds through apple groves and fields already blooming with festival colors. And for a moment, with the windows down and Derek’s hand resting warm on my knee, it almost feels like a dream too sweet to last.

In town, the air buzzes with May Day anticipation. Tents snap in the breeze. Kids dart between booths. Derek never lets go of me, not even once, as we set up my pie table beneath the striped red-and-white canopy. He smooths the tablecloth. Tightens the canvas. Kisses the top of my head like it’s routine.

“Not your full bakery yet,” Derek murmurs, scanning the setup with a crooked smile, “but it’s got your magic all over it.”