Page 53 of Off-Limits Daddy
Nervous. But good.
"Okay," I said, turning slightly toward him. "First things first—seat adjustment."
He shifted the seat forward a notch. Still not enough. I tapped the back of his thigh. “You’re not five-foot-ten in heels, boy. Move it up more.”
“Bossy,” he muttered, adjusting it again.
“Functional. Unless you want to look like one of those toddlers behind the wheel in a viral video.”
He snorted and finally settled in.
We went through the basics: clutch, brake, gas. The stick between us. My hand brushed his once or twice as I pointed things out—definitely not accidental. He was trying hard to focus, but his mouth kept twitching like he wanted to smart off and couldn’t decide how badly.
“Is this your idea of a date?” he asked, twisting toward me.
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s my idea of you learning something useful. Unless you’d rather me teach you how to beg instead.”
His breath caught. Then he scowled. “You’re a menace.”
“And you like it.”
He sat stiffly behind the wheel, knuckles white on the gearshift. The key was still in his lap.
“Clutch in,” I said, nodding to the pedals. “All the way down. Then turn the key.”
Ari slid the key into the ignition, movements clipped and tense, and turned it. The engine sputtered to life on the first try—miracle enough to make him glance at me like I’d slipped it into gear for him.
I hadn’t. Yet.
“Okay,” I said. “Foot still on the clutch. Now gently into first gear.”
He wiggled the stick around like it had personally offended him, then found first. Not graceful, but it worked.
“Now,” I said slowly, “you’re gonna ease off the clutch while giving it just a little gas.”
He nodded, brow furrowed. Tried.
The truck lurched. The engine choked out and died.
He exhaled sharply. “Shit.”
“Try again,” I said, voice low but calm. “Clutch in. Key again.”
Second start. Same result—engine coughed and stalled before we even rolled an inch.
Ari muttered, “I swear to God, if I stall again I’m walking home.”
“You walk home,” I said smoothly, “I’m spanking you in front of the parade tomorrow.”
His foot slipped off the clutch entirely.
I bit back a laugh and barely managed to say, “Relax, baby. You’ve got this.”
He glared at the wheel like it owed him money. “Pretty sure this stick shift’s been sent by Satan.”
“Then tame it.” I nudged his thigh with my knuckles.
Third attempt.
