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And her face. It's the icing on the cake, framed by honey blonde hair that causes her to look one part angelic, two parts naughty. Her almond shaped hazel eyes are set perfectly above her button nose and full, cupid's bow lips. I'm sure she knows how to use that mouth to bring a man to his knees, or can get down on hers and break his will. I've gone for years without sex, so it's a damn near miracle that this woman already has me picturing what it'll be like ending my unintended celibacy to get between her legs. But she does. And right this second, I'd give just about anything, even some extra time working at the shop—to have those lips wrapped around my—
“Are you going to just stand there staring at me, or can I get my car?” she asks, abruptly pulling me from my appreciative gaze.
“Evening, miss,” I say, lowering the rag a little to hide the erection growing behind my overalls. “You're not allowed back here. Wait at the door, please.”
Ignoring me, she struts inside and stands beside a car still hoisted up on one of our two hydraulic lifts. “I know my way around these places. Don't worry about me.”
“That's not the point,” I say, and realize this woman isn't about to listen to a word I say. I'm better off giving her the car she came for and getting her the hell out of here before she gets hurt. “Which vehicle are you picking up this evening?”
She gives me a hard look and then reaches into her purse.
“That Camaro you're working on.”
My eyes snap back at the car, and then over to her again. “This is your car?” I ask, and instantly have that much more respect for the stunning blonde.
She nods. “It's under the name Roberts. Is it finished? I'd like to get out of this part of town before the after-work, post-happy-hour crowd starts spilling out into the streets.”
“I'll find the keys. Hang on, gorgeous,” I say without thinking, or maybe something else is doing all the thinking for me right now.
It takes me no more than a couple of minutes to find her keys in the wall-mounted lock box near the back, but I return to find her pulling off her suit jacket. She throws the item of clothing over the back of a nearby raised toolbox. Completely ignoring that I'm standing right here, she then kicks off her shoes to one side and hikes up her skirt to halfway up her thighs, exposing cream, smooth lines that stiffen my cock in an instant. It's sexy as fuck. I stand there, transfixed for a bit, curious to see what else she'll do, but all my auto maintenance safety training kicks into action.
“Ma'am, you can't do whatever it is you're thinking about doing. Not back here.” In my beat-up pick truck, sure, I want to tell her. In my bed, fuck yes. But not in the middle of my place of work.
“Get over yourself, big boy,” she says, gesturing with her chin as her eyes drag down my body to groin level. “I'm not nearly as excited about you as you clearly are about me.”
Hell. This firecracker doesn't miss a thing.
“Well, can you blame me, gorgeous?”
“Keep your eyes on doing a good job on your cars, and maybe you won't have that problem.”
I'm still thinking how best to respond to what sounds like an insult to the quality of my work when she lowers to the ground, lies back on the rolling creeper seat, and glides under her car.
“Miss, you can't do that,” I tell her and rest her keys on the counter to pull her out from under there. I lower to my knees beside her and bend my body to one side, extending out a hand toward her. “Take my hand. I'll help you out. You can't be down there.”
Her head tilts up slightly, and she makes eyes contact with me. “Do I look like I need help, slugger? Or are you just giving me hell because I'm a woman?” The feisty little thing reaches over to the tool tray I left beside her car and grabs a box end wrench in one hand, then a socket wrench that she slips into her other hand.
“Whether you look like it or not, it ain't safe to let a customer get under cars on our shop floor and mess with stuff. Not men, and not a woman.”
“Yeah,” she says dismissively. “I just need to take a look at what kind of work you did to my baby before I go. Got a problem with that?”
“I do.”
That doesn't stop her from testing the tightness of the drain plug. “Feels all right, I guess.” Her eyes crawl along the undercarriage and stops in the vicinity of the brake fluid line bleeder screw. “What the hell?” She tilts her head up to look at me again, her eyes spitting venom. “Did you mess with my brake fuel line?”
