Page 64 of The Art of Being Merry
I’ve never gotten so wrappedup in sex, I had to stop and rein in my feelings.
As much as Clementine seemed upset at first, once we got back to it, I more than made up for it. Getting to experience her falling apart at my undoing was euphoric. Magical. Miraculous. And, nothing “casual” about it. Which presents a problem moving forward, a notion I’m shoving to the deepest parts of me. I can’t dwell on it now, not when we’re on borrowed time.
She offers to cook eggs, and because I’m so enthralled with her and still a selfish bastard, I let her. Especially because she looks feral with her wild hair and an oversized T-shirt.
After we’ve eaten, I give her another orgasm with my tongue. As much as my cock protested it wanted in on the action, if I gave in an inch, I’m certain I wouldn’t have left her house.
Another problem to sort out at a later time.
Once I’m dressed, she meets me at the door as I’m putting my boots on.
“This was a wonderful surprise, Dax,” Clementine starts, her expression lit up like the Main Street holiday display.
“You’re welcome, Clementine.” Now that I know how she feels about her full name, I’m more tuned in to using it. “Same time tomorrow?” The words barrel out of my mouth like a bull out of the gate, and nothing can stop them.
Her expression snaps into confusion. “What?” she squeals.
With it out there, I can’t take it back. Nor do I want to. Nor do I want to overwhelm her. Her free time is limited, and I won’t be a time thief. Besides, if I’m here during work, it puts a damper on getting things done.
“Think about it and let me know. Maybe a quickie. What time do the boys leave for school?”
“Bus comes at eight-thirty.” It pleases me she answered my question, alerting me she’s not against my proposition.
“Okay, text me either way tonight. If it works out, great. If not, another time.” My cock weeps at the notion of not being inside her again. Even twenty-four hours will be too long.
“Your definition of casual is way different from mine,” she mutters.
“Allow me to rewrite yours so it matches mine.” I’m not sure the words make sense, but I don’t correct them. She can define it however she wants as long as the result is more sex. “Bye, Clementine. Have a great rest of your day.” I peck her cheek, forcing myself not to let my lips linger nor move two inches to the left to her mouth.
Against my wishes, I leave her standing in the doorway, making my way toward my truck. Once inside, I wave, but she stands there in shock, almost identical to how she answered the door earlier except for being thoroughly fucked.
What a way to start a Monday.
Beck and I have co-owned Frostline Auto Garage for nine years, a dream we’ve shared since we were kids. Though Granddad died when we were little, he ignited our love of cars and trucks. We’ve been working on restoring his old original “1964 1/2” Mustang for several years, but it’s slow going. Mostly because we’ve run into snags trying to find original parts not costing an arm and a leg or aren’t on the other side of the country. Also, Beck is mostly insistent on rebuilding the engine. The man’s good with the exterior of cars, but under the hood, notso much. I suppose I’m the same but opposite. I’d rather fix things under the hood than bang out dents and cracks on the exterior.
As the only auto repair and body shop in Winterberry Junction, cars are constantly coming and going, even without set appointments. The winter months are especially rough between the weather and the tourists.
I roll up to the garage about four hours “late” for work. Without giving away my whereabouts, I have to get creative with my excuse. Even though it made me later, I stopped at the bakery and grabbed a dozen donuts.
I enter through the repair garage bays, the familiar scent of grease and motor oil welcoming me home. Ever since I was little, I’ve felt most alive in a garage.
Assessing if anything’s different from Friday, I check out the progress of the day so far. Various cars occupy all four lifts, and I make my presence known to the other mechanics with a wave. Soon as I get settled, I’ll be back to help.
I go straight to Meredith’s desk. “Morning.” Our office manager and the one person who keeps the garage up and running, despite Beck thinking differently, peers up at me. I hold up the bag. “Donuts?”
“I hope you had the decency to bring a cranberry one.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Mere.” I roll my eyes and place the bag on her desk.
“How was your morning?” She digs into the bag, pulling out a cranberry one and laying it down on a napkin on the side of her desk.
Fan-fucking-tastic,I don’t voice. “Good.”
Meredith quirks a brow. “I’m gonna need more than ‘good’ after covering your ass for being late this morning.”
“You ain’t getting it. But thanks for covering for me. I’ll stay later to get stuff done.” It’s not like there’s anything on my agenda after work.
Clementine’s face pops into my head, but before it can take hold, I shoo it away. I’m distracted enough by her. I can’t let her infiltrate the workplace.
