Page 95 of Dirty Mechanic

“Careful, sweetheart.” He’s panting now. “I’m running hot.”

“Then pour some coolant in me,” I whisper, tugging him closer, peeling the shirt from his body. “Before I overheat.”

He groans, grabs my wrists, and pins them to the mattress just above my head.

And just like that, I’m stripped down, tuned up, and chasing the finish line.

His body presses into mine, every line, every plane of him sparking against every inch of me.

He nudges into my entrance, slow and thick and perfect.

The stretch steals my breath.

When he finally sinks all the way in, it’s not just physical—it’s visceral. Like a piston locking into place. Like a system rebooting after a long, long time.

“Oh fuck,” I gasp, clenching around him.

“That’s it.” His voice is pure grit. “Nice and tight. Like you were made for me.”

And then we move.

He starts slow and deep, grinding strokes that send sparks through my spine. He rolls his hips with mechanical precision, each thrust a calculated rhythm. He kisses me as he moves, licking into my mouth like he can’t get close enough.

He lets one hand trail between us, cupping my breast, kneading gently before rolling my nipple between his fingers. I whimper, arching into him, and he thrusts harder, deeper, finding that perfect angle that has me clawing at his back.

The mattress creaks. The windows fog. The air inside the RV turns electric.

“Fucking love how you sound,” he growls, biting softly at my jaw. “Like a V8 engine purring just for me.”

“Don’t stop,” I beg. “Please—don’t ever stop.”

“I’m about to blow a gasket.”

I can’t hold on much longer.

He shifts, hitching one of my legs higher over his hip, and the new angle sends me spiraling. I break with a cry, squeezing around him so hard, he curses and buries himself deep, holding still as we both quake.

We shatter together.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not perfect.

It’s raw.

Real.

And absolutely ours.

Afterward, we collapse into each other, slick with sweat, tangled in limbs and breath and memory. As his hand strokes along my spine, I curl my fingers into the hair at his neck.

Outside, the stars burn cold and bright in the sky.

But in here?

It’s warm.

It’s home.