"First bike I ever bought." His voice changes, goes softer. "Saved up for two years as a teenager, mowing lawns, washing cars, doing whatever shit work I could find. Bought it as a wreck from some guy who'd dropped it in a ditch and left it there. Frame was bent, engine was seized, everyone said I was wastingmy money." He looks at it with something almost tender. "Rebuilt it from the frame up. Took me three years."
"You're sentimental?"
He looks at me then, his eyes gone dark. "About certain things."
The air between us shifts. I can feel the tension building, neither of us saying what we're both thinking.
I walk around the space, taking it all in, trying to get my equilibrium back. The organization is beautiful in its functionality—this is a space designed by someone who thinks systematically, who values efficiency, who has spent years learning exactly what they need and exactly where it should be.
I understand this space. I understand the mind that created it.
"This is incredible," I say, and I mean it. "The organization alone—I've never seen anything like it. Even Vaughn's setup at the shop isn't this precise."
"Like things where I can find them. Hate wasting time looking for tools." He shrugs, but I can tell he's pleased by the compliment. "Nothing worse than being in the middle of a job and having to stop because you can't find the right wrench."
"I get that. My space at the shop is the same way—not this level, but the same principle. Vaughn calls me obsessive."
"Nothing wrong with knowing where your shit is."
He's closer now. I didn't see him move, but suddenly he's right there, close enough that I can smell him—leather and something clean like soap and underneath it, just him, warm and male and making my lion want to roll over and show his belly. Want to submit, to surrender, to let this man do whatever he wants to me.
"Want to see the engine I'm rebuilding?" he asks.
His eyes aren't looking at the engine.
"Sure."
He moves past me to get to the workbench, and I can't help myself. I reach out and touch his arm, just barely, just my fingertips brushing the warm skin below his pushed-up sleeve.
He freezes.
"Jason."
"Yeah?"
He turns, and suddenly I'm pressed against the workbench, his hands on either side of me, caging me in. He's so much bigger than me—taller by several inches, broader, more solid. I should feel trapped. Cornered. My instincts should be screaming at me to get away from this apex predator who has me pinned.
Instead I feel held. Safe. Like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"This what you came for?"
"I came to see your garage."
"Bullshit." His mouth is so close I can feel his breath, warm against my lips. "You came because you want this as much as I do."
"What's 'this'?"
Instead of answering, he kisses me.
It's nothing like I imagined. All those nights lying in bed, thinking about him, I pictured him rough and demanding. Taking what he wants without asking. Controlled violence finally let loose.
But this kiss is careful, controlled, almost tentative. His lips brush mine softly, testing. Asking. Like he's afraid I'll run if he moves too fast. Like he's giving me a chance to stop this before it starts.
Like he cares whether I want this, not just whether I'll let him have it.
I don't want to stop.
I'm the one who deepens it, opening for him, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound that's almost surprised—a low grunt of shock—and then his control snaps.
