Page 19 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mechanic

I’m looking. I haven’t stopped looking. She’s standing in my shop, in the same spot she stood five years ago when she wheeled in a dead e-bike and smiled at me like I was a dog she wasn’t sure about. The lace is black and the light from the high windows is catching her skin and I’m on a rolling creeper covered in exhaust residue and I cannot think.

Callie walks toward me slowly, hips swaying in that black lace like she owns every inch of this shop and me with it. My heart is hammering against my ribs as she stops right in front of the creeper.

Without breaking eye contact, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her lacy underwear and slides them down her legs, stepping out gracefully. The scrap of fabric hits the floor, and then she’s stepping over me—those black heels planted on either side of my hips, giving me a perfect, filthy view.

She steps forward, then lowers herself, thighs flexing, until she’s hovering just above my face. The scent of her—warm, sweet, already wet—makes my mouth water.

“Fuck, Callie,” I growl, grabbing her ass with both hands and pulling her down onto my tongue.

I lick into her slow and deep at first, savoring the slick heat of her, then faster, focusing on her clit with firm strokes. She tastes like heaven and sin. Her hips start rolling against my mouth, and the sounds she makes—those breathy little gasps turning into full moans—go straight to my cock. I suck her clit between my lips and flick it with my tongue until her thighs start trembling around my ears.

“Oh God—Beck—” she cries out, grinding down harder.

She cries out as she comes, loud and shameless, her whole body shaking while I keep licking her through it, drinking every drop.

She’s still panting when she shifts back, sliding down my body until she’s straddling my hips. Her hands go to my jeans, unfastening the button and dragging the zipper down. She yanks them and my boxers to my thighs in one rough motion, freeing my aching cock. It slaps against my stomach, hard and leaking for her.

Callie wraps her fingers around me and strokes—slow, deliberate pulls while she stares straight into my eyes. Her thumb swipes over the head, spreading the pre-cum, and I groan deep in my chest.

“Callie…baby…”

She keeps her eyes locked on mine for several long seconds, stroking me like she’s memorizing how I feel in her hand. Then she rises up, positions me at her entrance, and sinks down in one smooth glide.

“Fuck,” I say through clenched teeth.

She’s so wet—slippery, scalding heat—and so tight, she squeezes me like a velvet fist. The feeling of sliding into her bare, nothing between us, almost makes me lose it right there.

She starts riding me, rolling her hips in that perfect rhythm that drives me insane. I reach up and unhook her bra myself, tossing it aside. Her full breasts spill free, heavy and gorgeous, nipples tight and flushed. As she moves, they bounce—fuck, they bounce—with every downward thrust, jiggling in the most hypnotic way.

I can’t stop looking. Her head falls back, eyes closed, lips parted as soft moans and whimpers escape her. One hand slides down her own body, fingers circling her clit while the other braces on my chest. Her tits are right there—bouncing, flushed, perfect—and her pussy is gripping me so tight and wet, I can hear the obscene sounds every time she sinks down.

“Jesus Christ, Callie,” I rasp, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. “You look so fucking hot riding my cock like that. Look at you—touching that pretty pussy while you take every inch. Those perfect tits bouncing for me. You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

She moans louder at my words, grinding down harder, her inner walls fluttering around me. The wet heat, the tight squeeze, the way she’s soaking my balls—it’s overwhelming. I’m fighting it with everything I have, jaw clenched, abs tight, trying to hold back so I can watch her fall apart first.

Her breathing turns ragged. Her fingers move faster on her clit. “Beck— I’m⁠—”

“Come on, baby. Let me feel you,” I growl, thrusting up to meet her. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock.”

She cries out sharply as her orgasm hits, pussy clamping down on me in pulsing waves, her whole body shuddering. Her tits bounce wildly with the force of it, nipples hard, mouth open in a broken moan that echoes through the shop.

That’s all it takes. I finally let go, coming hard with a guttural groan, hips jerking up as I spill deep inside her. The pleasure rips through me in long, intense pulses while she keeps riding me slowly, milking every last drop.

Afterward, she lies on top of me and we stay locked together, breathing hard, her body draped over mine as the aftershocks roll through us. The creeper rolls an inch, and she snorts against my neck.

“This is not a sustainable surface,” she murmurs.

I lift her off me, set her on her feet, and grab the moving blanket off the shelf in the back. The same one from that first night on the mountain. I spread it out on the shop floor between the lift and the bench, and she’s curled into my side before I’ve even settled.

She planned this. The lingerie, the folded clothes, the locked door. But the blanket was my move, and something about that feels right. She shows up. I make the surface. That’s how we work.

That tracks.

She’s curled against my side, my work shirt draped over her because the concrete floor is cool even in July. Her fingers are tracing patterns on my chest. Probably drawing smiley faces. She draws smiley faces on everything. The coupons, the grocery list, the foggy bathroom mirror after a shower.

“Beck?”

“Hmm.”