Page 3 of Daddy's Little Liar
Holy crap—Georgia leaned in closer to study the Elvis Presley signature that caught her eye on a laminated repair slip, Burt Reynolds’ on another. That made her feel better about having literally no other repair options.
A clipboard and several pages of what looked like an inventory list were hanging directly over the top of another old pin-up page. Georgia reached for it, slipping her fingers under the bottom corner to peek at the girl underneath. The door directly beside her suddenly swung open. She jumped, grabbing the wall as her weight came down wrong on her bad ankle, and only just barely swallowed back a cry when the owner came barging in.
Well, not barging. It was his garage, but at first glance, Georgia couldn’t help being both startled and a little betrayed. The sign outside said Dad’s Garage. It was decked out with decades’ worth of auto ads and 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s sex symbols. The mechanic who came through that door should have been at least in his seventies.
He wasn’t. In fact, he couldn’t have been more than five years her senior, a man in his physical prime, with broad shoulders, lean hips, and a full head of hair as dark as the oil on his work-roughened hands. His chin was square, stubbled with maybe two days’ worth of growth, and his eyes—a man with hair that dark should never have had eyes that blue.
“Hi,” she stammered.
A corner of his mouth curled into an easy smile. “Hello, yourself,” he replied, wiping his hands on an oily rag.
Shit. She liked his voice—smooth, not too high or too low. His masculine tone went straight through her lady bits and trembled in her tummy. She squeezed her legs together, but she could already feel that slight tickle of interest melting down through her core, saturating the crotch of her panties.
“Are you, um, Dad?” Georgia cleared her throat, trying her best to keep her voice even and the heat from stealing up from her stomach to stain her face. She wasn’t flirting, and it wasn’t a sexual question, no matter how embarrassingly hot the flush that burned through her when she said it. It was the name on the damn garage, for heaven’s sake.
The other corner of his handsome mouth curled and sexual or not, her face scalded as he chuckled.
“No, although I have been called Daddy a time or two. What can I do for you?”
Definitely don’t answer that.
There went that tickle again. Full-on molten liquid spilled through the folds of her sex, heedless of how hard she fought not to indulge the rush of inappropriate images that filled her head. What do you want to do to me? came right to the tip of her tongue, followed quickly by, Anything you want. She rolled her lips, forcing her mouth tightly closed until she was sure she could control herself.
“My car broke down.”
He nodded, still smiling and yet at once all business. “Is it outside?”
“No, I tried to limp it into town but couldn’t make it that far.”
“You walked into town? In those shoes?” Eyebrows arching, he looked at her feet, and she knew the instant he noticed her ankle because that good-natured smile vanished. He frowned. “Yes, I see you did.”
Georgia looked down, too. Forget orange, her aching ankle was the size of a grapefruit, with dark bruising streaks curling up around her heel and down through the tendons of her foot.
“Come in.” Holding open his office door, he tried to usher her inside. “I have Doc Johnson on speed dial and a tow truck around back. Give me your keys. I’ll go get your car, and you can wait for the good doctor in my office.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” She didn’t move. With a man as good-looking as this, stepping into his office felt too much like stepping into his bedroom. She couldn’t trust herself enough as it was. She needed air. She needed to be every bit as professional as he was and get her awkward attraction to him under firm control. “I’ll go with you.”
“I would feel better about that foot if you put it up,” he said, and it took everything Georgia had not to read his current look as both stern and oddly paternal. Looks like that should have been patronizing. She bristled. At any other time, on any other man, she’d probably have told him where he could stick his feelings, but she stood in front of him with a growing swarm of butterflies in her gut, slowly metamorphosing into low, sensual pulses. That feeling sank deeper until it was seated firmly, seductively, in the flesh of her mons. Heat and growing moisture only amplified each throb, sending them rippling through her pussy to her womb.
She cleared her throat. “I insist.”
He had his own pulse now—a tic of muscle that leapt along his chiseled jaw as he studied her. Just looking at it made the skin across her bottom and down the backs of her thighs prickle in anticipation. She wasn’t used to feeling that particular sensation, although it wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was weirdly stimulating—in her pussy where all she could feel now was throbbing and trickling wetness, in her chest where her heart felt as if it were both stumbling and racing, and in her nipples… dear God, were they stiffening? With every breath, she could feel them hardening into peaks that scraped deliciously against the everyday cotton of her bra.
Could he tell? Was he looking?
She didn’t think so. The penetrating blue of his eyes stayed locked on hers, and he wasn’t looking away.
“All right,” he said, tipping his head as he yielded to compromise. “You may come with me, but you’re staying in the truck. When we get back, I’ll take a look at your car, but you will wait in my office with an ice pack on your ankle. Are we agreed?”
Her bottom wasn’t just prickling now, it was crawling, and her pussy was spasming. Tiny twitches of excitement that felt almost orgasmic accompanied every shivery pulse and tug.
“All right,” she agreed. She even meant it… at the time.
Later that night, however, once things calmed down again, she would think back on this and recognize it as a pivotal moment. Maybe, just maybe, had she known then how hard ‘Daddy’ spanked, she might have tried to mind his edicts a little better.
Kace Morganson wiped his dirty hands, then dropped the rag on a nearby counter. “I’ll get my keys.” Leaving the pretty blonde in the garage, he headed into his office. Halfway through the door, his phone rang.
“Dad’s Garage,” he answered, plucking the keys off the hook on the wall.
