Page 2 of Possessive Mechanic
They never made me feel anything, definitely nothing remotely similar to this back alley-type brute.
“I…I’d like to make one,” I stutter.
“I’m closed. Plus you don’t have a car. What is this? A trap?”
“No. I swear,” I say, raising my palms up in surrender only to remember I’ve got a white-knuckle grip on a small can of pepper spray in my right hand.
“Yeah. You come in peace all right.”
In one move he grabs my wrist, the self-defense canister falling to the ground as he spins me around and pins my body to the glass door.
“What else you have on you? I bet you’re wearing a fucking wire underneath this little catch me fuck me getup.”
He grips the back of my neck, manhandling me as I whimper into his asserted dominance.
His fingers are long, crooked, and clearly calloused. He smells like motor oil and leather, a complete one hundred and eighty-degree difference from the boys I know who usually douse themselves in the latest designer colognes.
“Must be here somewhere,” his deep baritone says matter-of-factly as his hand drags down my spine, sending goosebumps across every inch of my body and my back arching partially from the pressure and also very unexpectedly from the pleasure.
I stick my ass out and as his hand reaches my tailbone he turns his palm so it’s no longer dragging palm first and then fingertips, but instead, his hand is horizontal, which allows him to slide right over my ass and cup my right cheek, squeezing it so hard I come up on my tip toes.
“Where the fuck is it?”
His hand dips under my skirt and up my thigh, the back of his knuckles skating over my suddenly drenched panties before he grabs my other thigh and then slides it down the other side of my leg.
“You’re fucking clean. I can’t believe it.”
Oh, I’m not clean at all. Not anymore, thanks to you.
One hand latches onto my hip and he spins me like a top, my body stopping in a half rotation when his hand intercepts my chest bone as he extends his hand and pins my back to the door.
“You didn’t have an appointment so what the fuck are you really doing here?”
“My car,” I say on a gulp, extending my hand and pointing to the still slightly smoking mess. “It broke down.”
“Broke down? You were about to break in. Nobody sends a piece of ass this fine over to this part of town without it being a trap.”
“I’m not. I swear.”
Crossing his arms across his barrel chest, the white tank top not doing much to hide just how muscular this man is he cocks his head at me and narrows one eye.
“What’s your name?”
Oh crap. Has he recognized me? I can give him a fake name and hope that plays out but he might ask to see my ID, or I can just give him the real one, which would not be a good idea at all.
“Astrid McNaughton,” I reply, wishing I could take it back immediately. There’s just something about him. Something almost…paternal. And I don’t want to disappoint him, just like I wouldn’t ever disappoint my dad, which is exactly why I wound up here in the first place. Maybe it has something to do with men who are just so powerful, so authoritarian. And strangely enough, this mechanic is the first man I’ve ever met who oozed masculinity like my dad.
Slowly he nods, a smirk taking over his face and damn does it fit him well.
“I knew you looked familiar,” he says, uncrossing his arms and then pointing his finger right at me. “Your old man sent you down here to check up on things, didn’t he?”
“My old man? Check up on things?” I pause and he says nothing, waiting for me to answer but I literally have no idea what he’s talking about. “What things?”
He shakes his head and then looks off into the distance, his head cocked to one side. “Astrid. Astrid. Astrid.”
This is it. Something’s about to go down. He’s pissed. This is my chance to run, but where? And how am I going to put any distance between me and a man who seems like could cover ground like a giraffe, but with the hunting ability of a lion?
Making him mad, trying to run away, is the last thing I should do.