Page 33 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

“Let go,” he commanded, his voice thick and rough. “Come for me, Aurora.”

And I did.

A sharp cry tore from my lips as pleasure crashed over me, wave after wave, his tongue never stopping, never easing, until I was shaking, breathless, spent.

Before I could catch my breath, Owen stood, his hands gripping my hips, dragging me to the edge of the counter.

“I need you,” he murmured, his voice ragged. “Now.”

I nodded, dazed. “Yes. Please.”

His lips crashed against mine as he unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down just enough before he lifted me off the counter, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He pressed me against the wall, his breath hot against my neck, his body aligning with mine, and then…

He thrust inside me, stretching me, filling me, making me his.

A strangled moan escaped me as he buried himself deep, his grip tight, possessive. He stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against mine, his breath uneven, his body trembling.

“Fuck, Aurora,” he groaned. “You feel incredible.”

I whimpered again, rolling my hips, urging him on. “Owen, move.”

He did.

His rhythm was slow at first, teasing, making me feel every inch of him, every slow drag and deep thrust. But as I dug my nails into his back, urging him on, his restraint shattered.

He fucked me against the wall, hard and deep, each thrust hitting something devastating inside me. His name fell from my lips over and over, his grip tightening, his pace relentless, worshipful.

I was lost in him.

The way he held me. The way he moved inside me. The way he whispered my name like it was sacred.

And when I shattered again, clenching around him, dragging him over the edge with me, his groan was raw, broken, beautiful.

CHAPTER NINE

Ethan

I didn’t givea damn about the Medford Fall Festival. Never had.

The whole thing was a littletoosmall-town for me—hayrides, pumpkin patches, kids running around sticky with caramel apples. It wasn’t my scene.

But this year, there was a cook-off. And Mason had been talking shit.

“Face it, E,” he’d said last week at Lucky’s, leaning back with that damn smirk. “You can handle a wrench, but the kitchen? That's a different story.”

I’d let it go. At first.

But then he’d made some comment about my “peak culinary ability” being scrambled eggs, and that was it.

Now here I was, standing behind a folding table in the middle of Maple Avenue, surrounded by people who actually cared about things like fall festivals and competitive cooking.

I cracked my knuckles, sizing up my ingredients. Mason was two tables down, already hamming it up for the crowd, talking a big game. Owen, on the other hand, was focused, rolling up his sleeves and setting out his ingredients like he was about to perform surgery.

I exhaled slowly. Time to win this damn thing.

The air was thick with the scent of sizzling butter, roasted garlic, and grilled meat. Around me, people bustled through the festival, stopping at booths, laughing, enjoying the crisp autumn evening.

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