Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Dory deserved a happy ending.
• • •
It was hours later when I realized I was totally and completely bored.
We’d eaten dinner. I was reading, and Jeremiah was working on his car in the shop. I was currently curled up on his couch in front of the fire, but the book I was reading was absolute crap.
The main character had just been killed off, and I had no clue how the hell they were going to come back from that.
A thought had occurred to me about twenty minutes ago when Anisa had sent me a text about the wedding, and my heart had fallen into my stomach.
I’d completely forgotten.
Tomorrow was her wedding, and there was no way in hell I was missing it.
None.
I was going back and forth on how to broach the subject with Jeremiah when I realized a few things.
One, he wasn’t the type of man that wouldn’t understand.
Two, he wasn’t the type to be willfully ornery. He would understand, and likely go with me, if only I broached the subject with him.
And three, the only way to really know was to ask him.
Deciding that it was now or never, I slipped into my warm fuzzy-lined boots, grabbed Jeremiah’s large leather jacket off the hook by the back door, then headed toward him.
I could hear the low thrum of rock music, and the soft clink of tools, the closer I got to the barn.
When I arrived in the small outbuilding, my jaw sort of hit the floor.
From the outside, it looked like an old barn with faded red wood, chipping paint, and a door that looked ready to fall off at the first big gust of wind.
From the inside, however, it was a model perfect replica of a garage. A pristine garage, at that.
There was a black, shiny car on the ground, and from underneath the car, I could see the lower half of Jeremiah’s legs poking out.
He had one leg up in a cocked position, foot flat on the ground, and the other straight out in front of him. The cocked leg was controlling the movement as he moved slightly left, then right.
I watched the muscles of his powerful thighs shift and bunch with the subtle moves, and then a grunt of, “Goddammit. You fat bitch.”
My lips quirked.
Was he calling the car a fat bitch?
God, he made me want to kiss him, and all he damn did was call the car a dirty name.
Then a thought occurred to me.
Why can’t I kiss him?
I watched him work underneath his old car, his body rolling around on top of the old ‘creeper.’ A rolling device that allowed him to lie straight on his back and move using his feet or hands.
I bit my lip, wondering what he would say if I just came up to him, pulled him out by his motorcycle boots, and kissed him hard.
Probably… nothing.
He wouldn’t say anything to me.
Because he wanted me.
All the time.
And I wanted him.
So… like the bold woman I was, I marched right up to him, grabbed ahold of his leg, and pulled.
Only, he didn’t come out all the way.
He only came out halfway.
But what it did do was free up his belt.
I pulled on that next, digging my fingers deep underneath the worn leather, and pulled until his upper body was completely exposed.
He looked up at me once his face was free, his salt and pepper eyebrow already cocked as if waiting to see what I’d do next.
Well, I’d show him.
I got down, putting my knees on either side of his body on that worn out creeper, and kept bending until my mouth was on his.
He made a “mmmmm” sound.
It had to be the very first time in the history of ever that he didn’t take control of the kiss by burying his fingers into my hair and moving my face the way that he wanted it.
Instead, he held his hands out wide so not to touch me with his greasy fingers and allowed me to control the kiss.
It was glorious, and by the time that I pulled away, both of us were panting.
I smiled.
He growled. “Kiss me again.”
I did, but only a small peck this time. “I want to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.” He reached back and propped his head up with one arm. “What’s up?”
The move caused the lower half of his t-shirt to ride up and expose his taut, lower belly.
His ‘I still have abs after drinking four beers’ lower belly.
I looked over to count the beer bottles beside the tire, then thought to myself, strike that. He’s on beer six.
“What was it you wanted to talk about?” he pushed.
I looked away from the beer bottles, then turned back to him.
“Did you call the car a fat bitch?” I teased playfully, leaning backward so that I could sit back onto his powerful thighs.