Meet me at the garage at dark
Make sure you’re hydrated
A bolt of anticipation lights up my nerves, shooting a line straight down from my stomach into my core at the cryptic messages. It doesn’t take much to remind my body of what this man does to it.
Maybe it’s all the true crime I listen to, but I think I’ve solved this mystery and my inner muscles clench at the thought of what awaits me.
I haven’t seen Weston as much the past couple of days while he’s been in charge of the shop. He’s been leaving early (yuck) and getting home late covered in grease and sweat, but with a smile on his face that’s not just for show.
For two people who “don’t do relationships,” we’ve been awfully cozy together lately.
Our nighttime sessions have been shorter than they were our first nights together a couple weeks back. Not that theyallhaveto take all night, but it still feels like I haven’t quite gotten my fill of him, or hit a point where just once a night is enough for me.
He tells me we might get there eventually, that the couples he knows get plenty of sleep, but I’m not so sure. I’ve seen the way his brother looks at Rory, the fire in their eyes, the tension that you can almost feel crackling between them, even after however many years they’ve been together and having a kid.
I wonder if that need ever goes away when you have a love like theirs.
Or a lust like Weston’s and mine.
Now that I’m staying with him most of the time, and thanks to some of the earnings I got from painting all those shops with him, I have the means to expand my closet beyond just a small capsule wardrobe that fits in the drawers beneath my bed in Van Gogh. I’ve splurged on a handful of outfits, including what I’m wearing tonight walking up to the garage.
It’s a shirt made for women with pierced nipples, with holes just where you need them to thread the piercing through the material so the metal hangs on the outside of the shirt. It only comes to just below my breasts, revealing my entire abdomen to him. As for the bottoms, I went with fishnet stockings and a pair of dark, fake leather shorts that are so tiny they probably qualify more as underwear, with my favorite black combat boots to top it all off.
I hope he comes in his pants when he sees me and then comes again on me shortly after. This splurge would’ve been more than worth it.
His texts seemed like he meant business, so also with me is a tote bag full of condoms and lube from his bedside drawer, multiple bottles of Gatorade, some cans of Alani, a few energy bars I stole from his kitchen, and a change of clothes to wear out of here whenever the hell we’re done.
I hope we never leave.
When I walk in the only open bay door the overhead lights are off, just a construction-type spotlight on in the middle of the shop, pointed toward the bay doors, shining on the wall in between them, illuminating a large machine with hoses and cords running out of it.
The night air in the mountains is far chillier than the sunny warmth we’ve had during the days lately, and even if I wasn’t already high on anticipation, my nipples would pebble from the temperature alone. Seeing this setup he’s put together, the way it looks almost like a stage, spotlight shining there, waiting for a private show, I’m instantly aroused. Intrigue leads me to turn in a circle, dropping the bag down out of the way, and searching for my favorite guy.
Hearing chains rattling behind me, I spin quickly and see him standing where I just came in, lowering the garage door with the chain pulley system they have here. When the door is closed, he latches it in place with a big hook that hangs from the chains to the door to secure it for the night.
“You look good enough to eat,” he says in a low, lethal tone, stalking toward me. His eyes, normally a deep, vivid green, look nearly black right now. They soak in my body, the outfit I bought for him. Desire sparks deep in my abdomen and spreads out like wildfire at the appreciation in his gaze.
“Haven’t you told me that before?”
Weston’s voice is nearly a purr when he replies. “Think I ate you out then too.”
“Maybe you need to refresh my memory,” I tease, tapping my chin like I can’t remember in haunting detail the first time he went down on me. Every single orgasm he wrought from me that night.
“Maybe you need reminding of a few things,” he says, close enough now that he circles me, looking me up and down. “Like what the fuck I’ll do to you when you look this good.”
Weston stops walking, directly behind me, and I feel the warmth of his body against my back as he invades my personal space, but nowhere near as much as I want him to. His fingers trail up my thigh, across the fishnet, teasing the delicate flesh as they travel up until they reach the hem of my tiny shorts. He slips a finger beneath the tight seam, running it over my ass cheek, taking his time to appreciate the outfit.
“Want my tongue beneath these shorts,” he growls.
When he pulls his finger out of the fabric it snaps against my skin with a loud noise and I jump at the sudden sound, letting a moan out at this new side of him.
His hands come down on my shoulders, moving down and over my chest from above until he’s gripping one breast in each hand. Weston lowers his mouth to my ear and rumbles a deep, throaty noise that I feel straight in my core.
“Want these tits in my face while I fuck you.”
He keeps his hands roving, splaying them across my taut stomach and down the bare skin there until he’s pushing the tips of his fingers into the top of the waistband of my shorts. He runs them over my fishnet-covered skin teasingly, taunting me. The response in my body is instant. Stomach dipping, core clenching, nipples peaking. I want him in a way I’ve never wanted anyone else.
“Want these hot little stockings on while I make you come,” he whispers, taking the lobe of my ear between his teeth before running his lips down the column of my neck, over my shoulder and across my back, up to my neck once more, burying his face in my hair as chills break out across my flesh.
