All it needs is a tune-up.I roll close, drop into a crouch, and set to work, losing myself in the rhythm of hands and thought.
A week ago, Jag and Wolf arrived in a storm of testosterone and truth bombs.A week of recalibration and sleeping soundly in the arms of two men.
Jag disappears into meetings most days, deep in the inner machinery of the cartel, sliding into his cybercriminal skin.He spends the rest of his time with me, checking in without hovering, present without crowding.It’s a careful balance, and he’s good at it.
Wolf took Van’s job offer the way Wolf takes anything, headfirst and smiling like a weirdo.He sits in on cartel meetings, planning the demise of every monster that preyed on the victims of House of Crowe.But the majority of his time is spent tattooing cartel guards, service staff, and the inner circle, filling his calendar with names, skin, and stories.
And me?I skate.I make things run right.I fix what was neglected.I remind myself that I’m allowed to be happy.
I’m torquing a bolt when I sense Jag behind me.
It’s always been like that.A change in the air.A shift that makes my spine straighten and my breath hitch.I don’t look up right away.I know he’ll wait.
His footsteps stop a few feet away.When I glance up, he’s leaning against a workbench, sleeves rolled, and shirt unbuttoned at the collar.Always so heart-stoppingly gorgeous.But the look in his amber eyes is different today.Not cautious.Not rushed.Finished with something.
He watches me for an endless moment, gaze hard and assessing.Not the way he watches rooms and cameras.This is him when he’s done pretending patience is a virtue.
I straighten, roll closer, and rest a hip against the Speedster.“Long day?”
“Long enough.”He pushes off the bench and steps into my space, towering over me.His eyes don’t wander.They lock with mine and stay.“Tonight.”
That’s it.One word.No explanation.
My stomach drops in the best possible way.Heat slides low and deep, gathering and swirling.I know what he wants, and he’s done waiting for me to finish punishing myself.
Extending his hands between us, he pinches strong fingers around the barbells in my nipples.With that grip, he tugs me to him.
My breath leaves me as the skates roll forward, bumping his boots.My mouth tips upward, and he plunders it.Hot breath.Sinful tongue.His lips raid in sucking pulls.
A moment later, he releases me, pivots on his heel, and leaves without another word.
I stand there, hands still, pulse hammering, the hum of the garage suddenly too bright.
A shiver creeps up.Then it’s everywhere, tightening my skin and rattling my bones as every nerve ending stretches to chase him.
Images invade, memories of Wolf’s hands, Jag’s mouth, their cocks rubbing together, muscles flexing, and hips thrusting.
Fuck!
I force myself back into motion.Tools clink.The 356 Speedster comes back to life.I let myself feel good at this.Let myself feel wanted without bargaining for it.
Until my concentration fractures again.I can still think, still move, but everything routes back to my body.The tingling in my belly sharpens, insistent, turning every breath into need.I’m aware of how I’m standing, how my shorts rub against my pussy, and how my nipples harden against my shirt.
When I finish the Speedster, I circle the Mustang.Van’s 1965 GT Fastback sits in the corner, darker, meaner, all muscle.I glide around it, palm brushing the curve of the fender as I think about what I’ll need to bring it back into proper shape.The plan helps.Focus helps.
But underneath it all, the anticipation simmers.
It follows me like a low current as the day toils on.I skate until my calves burn, and my shirt sticks to my back.I eat without tasting much.I keep busy so I don’t tumble into my head and stay there.
Every so often, I catch myself smiling for no reason.
Wolf breezes through at one point, ink smudged on his fingers, telling me a story about a client who cried then laughed then booked another session.Holding his saxophone case, he says offhandedly that there were requests to hear him play.Then he kisses my lips and saunters off, buzzing with bright energy.
I watch him go, affection warming my chest.
Jag doesn’t return to the garage.That feels deliberate.
At the end of the day, I finish what I’m doing, wipe my hands, and unlace my skates.I don’t rush.I don’t stall.I leave the garage and stride to our suite, my nerves tuning tight.But it isn’t fear.It’s readiness.
