5. I can’t remember your name, but
you’ve got the red and black ’67 Chevelle
with the supercharged big block right?
- Future Wife
This gorilla-sized man is thundering around The Pit’s kitchen, and he appears to be making about twenty pancakes on the flat grill. I never pegged him for the Suzy homemaker type, but even I have to admit it’s pretty damn sexy watching a man cook breakfast for dinner.
“Fuck, this heat has me wanting to stroke out,” he grumbles, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his plain black T-shirt.
“Welcome to Texas,” I mutter, swinging my legs as I sit on the shiny metal prep table, watching him mix a bunch of shit and then pour circles on the enormous restaurant size cooker. “You’re really going to be able to eat all of that?”
He grunts and next thing I know, he’s shedding his shirt, draping it over his shoulder giving me a full view of his wide, muscular back. Only one thing shapes muscles like that. I’d bet the man can do pull-ups for days. No wonder he knocked ol’ gnome out yesterday when he hit him. The man has the strength to easily dole out some punishment. Plus, he’s like six feet six or somewhere around there.
“How tall are you, anyhow?”
He turns to glance at me, eyebrow cocked. “Why?”
“Uh, I was just thinking about how you knocked that guy out last night. I was trying to figure out how many pull-ups you can do and was factoring in your height.”
His brow furrows. “You come off hostile, but I think it’s because you’re too damn smart up there in that pretty little head of yours.” He uses the spatula to gesture toward my skull.
“And you’re the size of an ogre. Should I assume you’re all brawn and no brains?”
He shrugs, turning back to flip the flapjacks over, and mutters, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Staring at him with that comment, I realize I don’t exactly hate him at this moment. He annoys me, but I think it’s because he’s so freaking attractive and he pushes me. Most men don’t have enough balls to really take me for what I am. They scare easily. This ogre, though, not so much. Maybe because he’s used to being the one who does the tormenting.
“So, how many can you do?”
“Pull-ups?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs then steps to me. “Watch the hotcakes.”
“Uh, ‘kay, but don’t be pissed if I burn them.”
“Won’t be the first time I had them like that either.” He shrugs and leaves me with a wink.
He stops in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” My gaze remains trapped on his every move. I can’t seem to break away from staring.
“You’re the one who wanted to know.” He drops his shirt, turning to face me and seconds later jumps up.
There’s a bar above the door, secured to the frame. It’s so we can slide a top lock in place if needed. I never really understood why the previous owner had it like that.
He makes it to fifty when the pancakes are cooked, and I have them on paper plates. He’s not even winded, chest coated in a light sheen of sweat. Fuck me, do I want to lick his freaking pecs. The man is ripped and just put me in my curious place pumping out fifty pull-ups without another thought. The sex we could have would be insane! Not that I plan to fuck him, but holy hell, I have to scrape my jaw off the floor at this rate.
“Not bad,” I mutter and hand him his plate.
“Mm-hmm, could keep going, but I’m hungry,” he grumbles, grabbing a plastic spork and the jar of peanut butter. There wasn’t any syrup around, but he swore the peanut butter would be just as good if not better. I’ve never had it like that, so we’ll see.
We sit side by side on the prep table and oh baby Jesus H. Christ do I want to lean over and just sniff him. The man’s pheromones are blanketing me with his little impromptu workout and cooking session. Not only that, but he can drive. The bastard won his race last night. I almost don’t know how to act around him.
He smears the peanut butter with his finger on each cake and holds it up.
“What?”
“Lick it.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’d offer that too, but I know you’ll fight me about it.”
“Jerk.”
“Lick my finger.”
“Not happening.”
“You asked about the pull-ups, and I cooked your dinner. Now lick the peanut butter off my finger.”
My stomach twists and heat pulls between my thighs at his demand. The man is sinful and infuriating all in one. He’s expecting me to argue, poking at me for a fight, so to keep him guessing, I lean over, close my lips around his finger and suck. Yes, I said suck…the peanut butter off.
Sitting back up, I lick my lips and peer up at him through my lashes. His nostrils flare as he takes deep breaths, his cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with desire.
“Yummy,” leaves me in a breath, and he clears his throat.
With a jerky nod, he takes a big bite and chews, staying silent. It worked and shook him off balance, just as I wanted. I dig into my own plate full of pancakes, using my finger to spread the peanut butter the same way I watched him.
When I’m finished, I go to take a bite, but he tugs my hand. I watch with bated breath as he lifts my finger to his mouth. He gently scrapes his teeth along my finger and follows it up by sucking the rest of the thick peanut spread off.
Oh, my.
I see now why his cheeks tinted. I feel my own grow warm, my nipples stiffening in response to his wet tongue on my flesh. “Delicious,” he confesses, his voice choppy and gruff with need. I know because my own voice thickened after having a taste from him.
“It’s really good,” I admit after another bite.
He smirks and continues to chew. I should’ve bitten my tongue. Now he’ll claim I owe him for cooking us dinner.
“So, were you guys able to get what you needed from those Iron Fists?”
He grows serious, his eyes guarded. “You need to forget about them.”
“They tried to jump me; I can’t just swipe it under the rug.”
“You can, and you will,” he orders, finishing his last pancake. He hops off and tosses his empty plate in the trash. I finish my food, and he takes my plate from me, throwing it away as well.
“Thanks.”
He holds his hand out, palm up. I raise my eyebrow and hop down myself. “I haven’t needed a man to help me down before, so I won’t start now. We shared pancakes and got into a fight together. We aren’t exchanging vows or anything.”
“You can’t handle letting a man be in control, can you?”
“Of me?” I scan his gorgeous body from top to bottom. His old jeans fit him in the perfect way, his heavy leather boots complementing the look nicely. “No. I don’t have a problem with a man being in control as long as it’s not with me. I’d end up breaking him.”
He snorts. “Then you haven’t had a real man.”
I flick my gaze to his and admit, “Probably not. Doesn’t mean I’ll give you a shot though.”
He grumbles, and I grin.
“Thanks for dinner, cupcake, but I have to get back to work.”
“Strip. I’ll work your body.”
“Ha, nice try, big guy. Don’t you have stuff to do for your Prez?”
Don’t they ride their motorcycles around and glare at children for fun or something?
“I’m doing it.”
“What?”
“Hanging around here and keeping my eye out for various people.”
“I see. Well since you’re not going away, how about you change the oil in the Camaro?”
“I can do that,” he easily agrees, and it makes him even more attractive in my eyes.
He’s a man’s man. You don’t come across many of those now that know how to fix cars, drive them like they stole them, grill food, ride motorcycles, and fight. His type goes all the way back to the cavemen. He’s a provider and a predator, and that’s fucking hot.
Most of the guys I come across are hipsters, growing a beard because it looks cool. They may as well have a vagina between their legs. They wouldn’t know how to change a tire or defend themselves if you paid them to. It gets old for me, being more capable than the men I attempt to date. After a while, I just gave in, fucked them to scratch an itch, but gave up on the idea of ever finding something remotely close to love. In this life, it’s thrive or perish, and I’m a fighter.
I watch as Mercenary heads in one direction and I make my way to my Nova. I raced her last night, so I was in the middle of changing out her oil and checking everything else over when Merc decided to interrupt me. My gaze on him only breaks when I slide underneath the door. I seal up the thick black plastic drip pan I used to catch the oil and push it off to the side. Then I go to work replacing the filter and twist the plug back in to the oil pan. She’s good as new and ready to kick some ass again.
Now if I can shake this biker, I’ll be the same.