The shop door creaked open, swinging against the cinderblock wall.
Marla stepped in--sun on her chest, dress clinging to every curve, sweat already collecting at the crease of her tits. Her flip-flops stuck to the garage tile with each step.
Derick looked up from behind the scuffed desk. Grease smeared across his forearms, a stub of a cigarette stuck to his lip. His heart didn't just skip--it lurched. That was her. Big Red. Still thick. Still mean. Still the one that never let him get close enough to wreck her.
She dropped her keys on the counter with a loud clack.
"Got a nail in the back tire. Hit hard. Probably fucked. Can you fix it?"
Derick didn't answer right away. His eyes crawled up her thighs, over the swell of her hips, the dress glued to her ass from the heat. No bra. Her nipples pressed sharp under the tank.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'll take care of it myself."
She smirked. "Didn't know you got your hands dirty these days."
"For you? Always."
She raised an eyebrow, leaned in. Her tits rested on the edge of the counter. He could smell her sweat. Her heat.
"You flirting or just trying to stare down my top?"
"Both."
Marla snorted. "You always had a mouth on you. Still do, from what I hear."
"You still send your husband all the details after you let strangers wreck you?"
That froze the air. She didn't pull back. Just blinked slow. Her lips curled, but not into a smile.
"He likes stories. Doesn't mean I owe you a starring role."
"I've been in the credits too long," Derick said, stepping out from behind the counter. "Time for a scene."
He stood close now. She didn't move.
"You've been dying for this since tenth grade," he said.
"No," she said. "You've been dying for me since tenth grade. There's a difference."
Derick leaned in, mouth by her ear.
"Still got that same scent. Thick. Feral. I'd eat you right now if this desk wasn't between us."
Her thighs flexed. Bare beneath the dress. She didn't deny it.
"What is it with you and pussy eating? You got a whole fetish?"
"I got a short dick and a big mouth. I know what I'm good at."
That made her exhale through her nose. A soft, involuntary laugh. She turned, slow, looking toward the office door. No one else was in sight--just the back hallway leading toward the bays and racks.
"You want it that bad?"
"I've wanted it longer than your marriage."
"And what, you think I just came in here wet and ready?"
He reached out. Touched her wrist. Light. Testing.
"No. I think you came in here knowing I'd be the one touching that tire. Knowing I'd offer more than a patch job."
Her legs didn't move.
Outside, a compressor kicked on and hissed. Inside, silence.
She bit her lip.
"You really think you can handle it?"
"I'll grip your thighs until they shake. I'll lick you until the words don't come out right. I'll fill you 'til I break."
That landed. She inhaled through her nose, hard. Her cheeks flushed.
"You've got two minutes to convince me before I walk."
Derick turned, locked the office door, and took her hand.
"We're not doing this on paperwork."
He led her through the side hallway, into the heat and dark of the back bay. The air changed--thicker, louder. Tire smell. Rubber. Metal. Sweat.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"To where I jerk off thinking about you."
They passed two younger tire techs leaning near the shop sink. One looked up, eyes wide. The other turned fast, suddenly busy.
Marla smiled without joy. "You got an audience?"
"Let 'em watch. Just like you used to let me."
They disappeared behind the stacks. She saw the racks--waist-high steel, stacked tires, bars strong enough to brace on.
Derick turned. Eyes wild. Breath heavy.
"Hands on the bar."
She stared at him. Her chest rose. Her nipples showed. Her thighs already glistened.
"Thirty seconds," she whispered. "Show me what you can do."
He dropped to his knees like a man begging God.
Derick buried his face between her thighs before she could say another word.
