In His Kiss Box Set

Car Trouble-3

The mechanic opens the bay door for Terrence, who drives into the garage. As he parks, the guy tugs the bay door down behind the Mercedes. Hitting the brake, Terrence watches the guy in his rear-view mirror, a thoughtful expression on his face as he listens to the choppy sounds of the motor. The engine drowns out the world, unbelievably loud in the closed garage. Finally he waves at Terrence to turn it off.

Climbing out of the car, Terrence frowns. “What do you think the problem is?”

The mechanic jogs to the front of the car. When he passes Terrence, he pats Terrence’s stomach with the back of his hand as if they’re best buds. The almost careless gesture of camaraderie sets Terrence’s nerves tingling, and through his shirt, his skin seems to burn from the guy’s quick touch. “Pop the hood for me, will you?” he asks.

Terrence turns his back to the guy and leans through the open window into the car. Over his shoulder, he watches the mechanic watch him—those dark eyes widen, trained on Terrence’s ass. His silk slacks hide nothing; they show off every curve, along with the trim cut of his thighs. His shirt flattens out across his back, pulled straight along his broad shoulders, and from the corner of his eye, Terrence sees the mechanic bite his lower lip.

Good. He wanted that reaction.

Pulling the hood release, he stands and turns to smile at the guy, who runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face.

The man has to clear his throat before he can speak, but he doesn’t manage to tear his gaze away from the slight bulge at Terrence’s crotch to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

The mechanic lifts up the Mercedes’ hood and leans under it. The shadows fall across his bare back, turning the tan skin a dusky hue, and Terrence has to resist the urge to touch him. At the small of his back, his jeans pucker slightly, allowing a glimpse of white boxers.

Terrence wonders what the guy would do if a finger eased down that gap in the fabric. Just thinking that makes his groin ache sweetly. His voice is thick with lust when he grumbles, “Well?”

With nimble fingers, the mechanic pokes around beneath the hood for a minute before replying. “It could be a number of things.” Glancing up, he winks at Terrence again and says, “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“I doubt you could bore me.”

The mechanic’s gaze slides down Terrence’s body like a magnet drawn to his crotch. There’s a faint smile on his lips, one that entices Terrence to step closer. Leaning over the side of the car, he stares at those pink lips and, in a low voice, says, “Try me.”

Those eyes rise to meet Terrence’s steady gaze. The look in them asks, Really?

Oh God, yes, Terrence wants to say. Please. Try me. Right now there’s nothing he’d like more.

But the guy clears his throat and stands, and the moment is gone. “Let me get some information from you,” he says, trying to be professional. “Follow me.”

“Anywhere.”

There’s that look again, the one Terrence thinks says, God, I want you. The urge to say the words out loud grows with each passing minute.

He follows the mechanic into the waiting area, both of them entering the room through different doors to emerge on either side of the counter. Here in the bright light of the waiting room, the mechanic looks paler than he did in the garage; his skin takes on a porcelain, almost translucent, shade. Terrence pictures his hands cradling such fine flesh, night encircling the day.

When the mechanic leans one hand on the counter to duck down, Terrence wants to touch those long, white fingers, see how dark his own skin would look against them. He wants to cover that hand with both of his, draw those dirty fingertips to his chest, his belly, lower. He wants to feel it grip him below the belt, ease into the fly of his slacks, grasp the hard darkness in his briefs.

He actually begins to reach out when the mechanic stands. A blank invoice replaces the guy’s hand. “Fill this out.” He looks at Terrence, not at his eyes but at his mouth, as if wondering what it’d taste like. “Please.”

“Sure,” Terrence says, taking the paper and a pen he’s offered. Their fingers brush, the touch as brief and electric as a summer storm. The mechanic leans over the counter and watches, not even bothering to hide the fact he’s reading as Terrence fills out the form. “I’m Terrence Jackson.”

“Jimmy.”

Terrence looks up to find the mechanic staring at his short, kinked curls, his chocolate eyes, the thick eyelashes which curl almost girlishly. Then the man clears his throat and says again, “Jimmy. That’s my name.”

“Jimmy.” Terrence allows his mouth to curve into a beguiling smile. So this deity has a name after all. “Are you a good mechanic?”

Jimmy laughs. “I’m good with my hands, if that’s what you mean,” he says with a wink.

Damn, the audacity…Terrence’s c**k goes from a mild ache to a painful throb in the confines of his slacks, suddenly harder than it’s been in a long time. “How good?”

Jimmy smiles. Terrence can’t help but wonder what he’d do if asked to show just how good because hell, he wants to find out.

Apparently, Jimmy remembers he has a job to do, because he turns from the counter and heads for the door leading back to the garage. With a hand against the door, he stops. “There’s coffee there, if you want to wait. I may be a little while—”

“Take your time,” Terrence says. “I have all day.” To watch you, he adds silently, and before Jimmy turns away, Terrence gives him a wink of his own.

Jimmy’s eyes widen slightly, then he grins before disappearing through the door. Terrence wanders to the window that separates the waiting room from the garage and doesn’t care how obvious it is he’s watching the mechanic. Jimmy heads towards the Mercedes, one hand shifting the front of his jeans as he walks. Terrence sees his own reflection grin at him in the window. So I’m not the only one with a hard-on right now.

Pouring a cup of the coffee, Terrence leans against the window to sip at the tepid liquid and watch Jimmy bend over the hood of his car. Before he leaves Gary’s, he wants a piece of that.