She was sure she was staring, too. Hot Mechanic was deeply captivating.
When the kid didn’t seem to understand the analogy, Hot Mechanic got specific. “If she asks you to go faster, what she’s really saying is, do exactly what you’re doing right now, just…”
“Faster?” The kid was confused. Maybe he wasn’t as good at sex as Hot Mechanic was.
Because Monica didn’t have a ton of experience, but what she did have affirmed the hypothesis that jack-rabbiting was the most common response to an urge for more, and often that urge was communicated as a breathless “faster” that didn’t really mean exactly that.
Hot Mechanic knew exactly what it meant. “Speed up. Gradually. So she can’t feel the shift in gears.”
“But it needs to be under seven seconds.” The kid’s cheeks turn pink. “Not sex. I mean, the tire change.”
“Don’t worry about how long it takes. Worry about being smooth. Focus on the car not even being aware that you’re sliding on a new tire. Pretend the car is a girl—or guy, whatever—that you’re trying to impress. Don’t worry about me. I’m not here. It’s the car you want to be smooth with.”
Monica let out a low moan, and the kid looked up at her.
This time, Hot Mechanic didn’t miss the fact that someone was standing right behind him. He turned slowly, every inch of his tall, muscular body on alert. When he finally looked up at her, he didn’t look embarrassed about the conversation she’d just overheard.
He looked annoyed that she’d been eavesdropping.
Which she hadn’t been.
This was a workplace, and she was there to do her job. Sort of.
You thought you could seduce him.
Well, that was before she knew that he apparently knew everything about sex. And back when she thought she might have the upper hand, because she was a pretty twenty-one-year-old and he had a dick.
From the suspicious look on his face, clearly it wouldn’t be that easy. “Can I help you?”
There was something utterly irresistible about the command in his voice. She blushed and gave him her brightest smile. “I certainly hope so.”
His brows rose, and he waited.
“I’m…” she trailed off. Re-assessed. Figured out that the first thing she needed to do was prove to him shewasallowed to be here. Time to play it straight. She flashed him her keycard. “I’m new here. From marketing. I have some questions, but please, finish up what you’re doing first.”
He frowned, but accepted her answer and turned around again. “Let’s do this three more times. Then we’ll call it a night.”
The driver in the car backed up, then rolled forward again. The team surged forward, each doing one task. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than before. The second time was a little slower, but the third time looked exactly like on a race day, and Monica clapped.
Hot Mechanic shot her a look that said,we don’t applaud people for just doing their jobs.
She pressed her lips together, holding back all her other impulsive responses—questions, quips, and attempts to be cute that she just knew would land badly. This guy wasn’t that easy to impress. She knew that instinctively. And yet that only made her want to impress him more. To win him over and show him she was worthy of his time.
It didn’t take long for everything to be returned to its rightful place. For the team to disperse, leaving them alone. Just long enough for her to take another good look at him and assess him again. Not as Instagram material this time, or a potential racing-business coach, but as a…
As awhat, Monica?
He locked up a tool cabinet. Everyone else in the garage had been wearing race team overalls. Not him, though. He was wearing black jeans, snug to his thighs. The knees were worn, but not yet ripped, and a metal chain looped from his belt to his back pocket, where the faint outline of a wallet did nothing to obscure the distinct curve of solid thighs to an even tighter, more solid ass.
How did a mechanic get a lower body like that? Non-stop squats?He was built like an athlete, like a baseball catcher, not like the graceful leanness of most people in racing. But he wasn’t just built differently. He was taller than most everyone else in the building, too.
“What on earth does someone from marketing want with a grease monkey like me?” he finally asked, breaking the silence in the garage.
She jerked her gaze up from his ass. He wasn’t looking at her. He was still puttering around with tools, but somehow she knew she was busted for checking him out. She scrambled down the stairs, and as she crossed to him, he turned and leaned back against a workbench.
Stopping just in front of him, she squared her shoulders. “Thank you for letting me watch the tire-changing practice.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember giving you permission, exactly.”
