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Page 3 of Fixed (Spicy Bites #2)

SETH

I watch through the glass as Tyler hovers over Frankie's Fiat. The Fiat’s hood is propped open, and he’s elbow-deep in coolant sludge, face puckered with suffering.

He keeps looking up like he expects divine intervention or maybe a hidden camera crew to tell him the entire thing is a sick prank.

I let him sweat for a minute, then head down from the office to set the record straight.

“Status update,” I call, and his spine snaps straight.

“Sir, I pulled the head cover and—” He hesitates, glancing at the car like it’s a ticking time bomb. “I’ve never seen so much scale in a coolant jacket. I don’t even know how she made it here. It’s really fucked, boss. You want me to get started on it?”

“Let me talk to the owner first,” I tell him as I turn to head up to my office. Behind me, I hear the soft click of him snapping on new gloves. Kid might be a disaster magnet, but he’s loyal. That’s rare.

I sit behind my desk and pull up Frankie’s info. I dial her number and hold my breath as I wait for her to answer. “Hello?” Her sweet voice cuts through my soul, sending hunger zipping through my blood.

“Frankie, it’s Seth.” I keep my tone neutral, all business.

There’s a tiny, theatrical sigh. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad.”

There’s a pause, and I hear a faint sigh. “Darn it. So, what’s the estimate?”

I lean back, watching the shop floor churn. “I can give you a ballpark, but it’s gonna depend on parts availability. Honestly, it’d be easier to talk it through in person. Are you free tonight?”

She goes silent for a second. I count the beats. One, two, three.

“Tonight?” Her voice is steady, but she’s not as good at hiding nerves as she thinks.

"We can have dinner," I suggest, my voice carrying a reassuring tone. "I'll walk you through the itemized costs, lay out some options for you. After that, you can decide if it’s worth reviving Sparkie or if we’re drafting her eulogy."

Another pause stretches between us, the silence almost tangible. "Ouch," she replies at last, her voice tinged with humor, though I can sense the tension beneath. "I'm sweating already."

"Don't worry. I promise to make it painless," I assure her, attempting a casual air. I’ve never flirted in my goddamn life. Hopefully, I'm hitting the right notes here.

She breaks into laughter, a genuine sound that rings bright and quick. "All right, Seth. Dinner it is. Where do you want to meet?"

“I’ll pick you up at the Silver Spoon Inn at six-thirty if that works.”

“That works for me.”

“See you then,” I say, then hang up before I can say anything dumber.

For a minute, I just stare at the phone, heart hammering like I’m the one with a blown gasket. It’s not like me to get bent out of shape over a woman. Not since… well, fucking forever.

But Frankie is different. Everything about her is goddamn perfect.

I drum my fingers on the glass desk, then get up and walk the perimeter of my office. Everything’s under control, except for the one thing that matters.

I’ve got six hours to figure out what the fuck I’m going to say to Frankie Foxworth. And why I care this much about saying it right.

I give up and decide to head home early for the first time in years.

I pull into the driveway, the garage door gliding up with the precision I demand from everything in my life.

The shop truck slides in next to the classic Mustang I keep for weekends.

For a minute, I just sit in the cab and let the AC blast the sweat off my back.

My mind’s on every moment with Frankie, looping over every word, every little hesitation.

I want to hear it again. That’s not normal. Not for me.

Inside, I dump my keys on the kitchen island and kick off my shoes. The entire lower floor boasts an open-plan design, featuring sleek polished concrete and expansive glass walls.

I walk through the space, shedding the rest of my clothes as I go. The place is cold, but I like it that way. I head straight for the shower.

The water is scalding, exactly how I need it. For a long time, I just let it beat the day off me—grime, sweat, and the traces of stress that cling to my skin after hours in the office.

I brace both hands against the tile and drop my head, letting the steam fill the little room. Most days, I can empty my head in here, just focus on the sensation, the noise, the nothingness.

Not today.

Today, the image of Frankie is stuck in my mind, with her bright and sharp blue eyes hidden behind the glasses, pouty lips, and endless curves. She was fucking made just for me.

The way she stood, arms crossed and daring me to fix her car, the way her laugh snuck out before she could stop it.

The goddam water’s scalding my skin, but I don’t give a shit.

My hands move all over my body, lathering up soap like I’m trying to scrub her memory off of me, but it’s useless.

My hands slow down when they glide over my chest, my abs, my fucking cock twitching just from the thought of her.

Frankie, with her black-framed glasses and that smirk that makes me want to pin her against the wall and remind her who’s in charge.

I glance at my reflection in the fogged-up glass. My jaw’s clenched, my eyes dark with hunger. I look like a fucking animal, and I don’t care. I can’t stop thinking about her. So, fuck it. I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over.

In my imagination, she's standing in my shower.

Her chest is exposed and flawless, with her nipples hard like tiny pebbles from the chill of the tile against her back.

Her glasses remain on, misting over. After all, it's my fantasy.

Her skin is smooth and shiny from the water, slippery beneath my touch as I pull her hips toward me.

She’s not even a little shy in this version. Her mouth’s red and wet, begging for mine. She drags her tongue across her bottom lip, teasing me. Her teeth sink into my shoulder as her nails claw down my back, leaving marks I know I’ll feel for days.

“You gonna fuck me, Seth?” she whispers, her voice dripping with heat. I lift her, letting her curvy thighs wrap around my waist, pulling me in tighter. Her slick and ready cunt presses against my rock-hard cock.

“Yeah,” I growl, gripping her hair tightly before pulling her head back so she’s looking right at me. “You want it rough, don’t you?”

Her smirk’s all the answer I need.

I don’t fucking wait. I slam into her, and her back hits the tile while her moans mix with the sound of water pounding around us.

She’s tight, so fucking tight, and wet, like she’s wanted this just as much as I have.

Her nails dig into my shoulders as I pound into her, each thrust deeper, harder, until she’s screaming my name.

“Fuck me harder!” she demands, her voice breaking.

I comply. My hand, coarse against her skin, grips her hips, squeezes her backside, drawing her closer with each movement. The steam is dense, suffocating, but it doesn't matter to me. What matters is her, how she embraces me, how she responds as if she's been craving this.

"Come for me," I murmur, my voice deep as my hand moves to her clit, rubbing it firmly and quickly.

She does. Her body contracts around me, her moans escalating into screams as she climaxes, her thighs gripping me as if she'll never let go.

I’m not far behind. My hand’s tight around my cock, stroking fast and rough, exactly the way she’d want it. My orgasm hits me like a fucking freight train, violent and raw, my cum spilling out onto the tile as I grunt her name.

When it’s over, I’m goddamn wrecked. I lean against the tile, forehead pressed to the cold surface, trying to catch my breath. My heart’s pounding, my vision’s blurry, and I’m still fucking hard.

This isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough.

Fuck, I need her.

Eventually, the hot water runs out, and I turn the dial to cold. The shock wakes me up, resets the system. I step out, towel off, and look in the mirror again. My hair’s a mess and my skin’s red from the shower. I look like a man who just got laid, and maybe that’s close enough.

I pull on fresh jeans and a black t-shirt, nothing fancy. For a second, I think about calling Frankie back, coming up with an excuse to talk to her before dinner. I don’t. I’m not that far gone. Not yet.

Instead, I go to the kitchen to make a sandwich and eat it standing at the counter.

I try to think about work. I have to deal with the Ferrari hood, the payroll run, and the EPA paperwork still waiting on my desk, but that shit is all white noise.

I finish eating, rinse the plate, and go sit on the couch.

The sun is low outside, striping the room with orange and blue rays. There’s nothing to do but wait.

I close my eyes, but instead of blankness, it’s her I see. The smile, the laugh, the way she said my name.

“Fuck.” My words fill the empty room, and the echo comes back at me like a challenge.

I’m in trouble with this one.

I’ve been in trouble before, but this time? I’m in it for life.

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