Page 24 of Possessive Mechanic

“Why did you stop?” she whimpers. “Where are you going? Come back and finish what you started, Axel. Don’t leave me here, naked and needy like this.”

I say nothing, just open the fridge, take what I need and quickly close the distance between us.

I shake the bottle, pop the plastic top off and then pull out the nozzle, pressing it gently against the small of her back.

“It’s cold,” she says, stating the obvious.

“It’s about to get hot as hell,” I give her notice.

Squeezing the bottle, Hershey’s chocolate syrup slides down the small of her lower back, along that perfect curve and in-between her cheeks.

Tossing the bottle to the side without a care about where the chocolate is flung, I pry open those cheeks again and watch as it drips down and across her most forbidden hole. As soon as it does I devour her chocolate covered starfish with my greedy mouth.

“Fuck, Axel. You sick fuck.”

“Only for you, baby. Only for you,” I remind her as I tongue her behind.

Her hips flex and she pushes them forward, holding them there in a locked position before her hands start to shake and without warning, she unloads, gushing so violently it splashes onto the floor.

“You’re winning, three to nothing,” I tease, slowly standing, pulling my knees and shins off the cold concrete.

“I’m winning because I got you.”

“Oh, you got me all right. But how about you get some more.”

“What do you mean?”

Smirking, I follow the cable to the controller and jab at the green button, her body descending in jerky motions. Her feet touch, but I’m not about to allow something as basic as that. “On your knees.”

I put more slack in the chain until I can grab her body and tuck it up and under so her hands are now behind her back as she kneels in front of me.

Fisting my cock I move closer, gently pushing my throbbing cock against the side of her cheek, dragging it over her mouth as she tries to suck it inside but misses, only for me to gently slap it against the other side of her face again and then continue repeating the process.

She keeps lunging for my rod like she’s bobbing for apples, finally getting hold of it and immediately taking it deep inside her mouth, using the leverage of the chain to lean in and then pull herself back, bobbing on my member.

“Oh fuck yeah. Just like that.” One hand jabs into my hip as the other finds the back of her head, guiding her as I control the pace of her fellating.

My eyes roll back in my head, which tips back in approval. Her warm mouth cloaks my thick inches like a wet blanket, my sensitive foreskin being pleasured so damn much I’m damn near popping already.

“I’m close,” I call out, tapping the back of her head three times. “Pull back if you don’t want this.”

“I always want whatever you have for me,” she mumbles, a mouthful of dick preventing her from forming understandable sentences.

But I get her because we’re connected in ways she doesn’t yet know…but soon will.

“Fuck, baby. I’m close. Three…two…” I countdown to liftoff, for what reason I have no clue. It must be something inside me that’s trying to warn her, to let her know this is going to be the mother of all explosions.

But she stays wrapped around my dick and a second later I thrust my hips forward and my balls pump as I absolutely unload a cannon of come into her throat.

She chokes and gags as I paint a Jackson Pollock in her mouth, my mind going blank and my knees going weak.

Suddenly I’m weightless dropping to my knees as my still ninety percent erect dick flops from her lips as I collapse to the concrete.

Just as I hear the sound of sirens in the distance.

“Fuck,” I groan, pulling myself up and off the ground, moving as quickly as I can to grab fresh shop towels to clean up this mess of fluids, the sights, sounds, and smells of our everything but actual fucking everywhere.

I unhook her and manage to get her cleaned off, wrapped up in a motorcycle cover and myself dressed as she wipes the final bits of evidence of her arousal from my jaw.

As she does, two police cruisers come flying into the garage, the echoes of their sirens deafening. If the flashing cherry beams of their sirens weren’t enough they hit us with a bright white spotlight, rendering us blind, but not enough before I see the blacked-out Suburban that follows the cop car, which I recognize instantly as the one her father owns.

The sound of the door opening and then slamming alerts me that a shitstorm is about to go down. The sound of his derby shoes that he always wears gets louder as he marches toward me. “What the fuck is going on here?” his unmistakable voice questions just before I feel a punch across the jaw.

“We need to talk,” I say, giving him that free punch.

“You’re damn right we do!”

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