Car Trouble, Book 7 in my Working Man series by J.M. Snyder
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When Terrence Jackson’s new Mercedes begins to act up, his secretary suggests he take it to a local auto shop she usually frequents. But a phone call to the shop’s owner doesn’t exactly instill him with confidence. Still, the place comes highly recommended …
What begins as a bad day improves when he meets the mechanic. Dressed in a pair of tight, oil-stained jeans and little else, Jimmy exudes sex appeal. Terrence finds himself drawn to Jimmy, and soon it’s not just his car being serviced.
The sudden ping of metal on metal is loud in the closed garage. Terrence whirls around. There’s a blue Camaro behind him, parked in one of the far bays. As he heads in that direction, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, he hears the shuffle of sneakers, a muffled curse. Closer, coming around the front of the car, he sees slim, denim-clad legs beneath the bumper, and one bare elbow sticks out from under the open hood. “Hello?”
He stops at the side mirror on the passenger side and ducks his head to peer under the hood. He sees light brown hair the color of iced coffee, smooth as a curtain that hangs down to obscure the mechanic’s face. That hair is cinched loosely at the guy’s nape with what looks like a spare piece of rubber tubing, tied into place to keep it from his face, but the knot isn’t tight and the hair has slipped free to fall over slim, bare shoulders. Terrence isn’t one for long hair on guys, but he likes the way those feathery strands wisp over firm, pale skin, and his hands clench into unconscious fists in his pockets.
Then the mechanic notices him and steps back, startled. “Hey!” he cries, surprised. His voice is unusually loud in the closed garage. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
White wires snake into his ears, and when he tugs them away, Terrence can hear tinny music through the earbuds. He lets his gaze travel down the mechanic’s lean frame, over the smoothly muscled chest, the barely-there six-pack abs, the tapered waist, a pair of low-riding jeans that scarcely manage to cling to narrow hips. Just below the mechanic’s navel, a scant dusting of fine hairs starts up, trailing into those jeans. A hand curls into the pocket of his jeans, pulling them down a little as he shoves the earbuds out of sight.
Then Terrence looks up and, for the first time, sees the face hidden beneath that flyaway hair. Deep eyes the color of caramel stare out from light skin, and full, ruddy lips spread into an easy grin. “Hey there, big guy,” he says, his voice lower now that he doesn’t have to shout over his music. “What can I do you for?”
Wouldn’t you like to know.
Unbidden, the thought of those pink, chapped lips clamped around his thick, black cock fills Terrence’s mind. He imagines fisting his hand into that soft hair, thrusting into that wide mouth, that taut body tight against his own.
Damn. What’s he here for, again? And why aren’t they naked already?
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