Chapter 3: Dangerous Games
The smell of motor oil and old concrete was a strange perfume, but it was his, and now, somehow, it was hers too. Eleanor stood just inside the rolling bay door of Rossi Motors, the October wind tugging at her sensible coat. The garage was a cathedral of industry, all gleaming tools and hulking, silent machines under fluorescent lights. In the back, behind a smudged glass partition, was the office. A light was on.
Three days. It had been three days since the shattered plates, the table, the way he’d carried her to the chair afterwards. They hadn’t spoken. He’d left before dawn, placing a mug of tea on the bedside table before he slipped out. The silence felt like a held breath.
She walked through the garage, her steps echoing. The office door was ajar. He was behind the desk, head bent over an invoice, a pen tucked behind his ear. He wore a grey tank top, smudged with grease, and his arms were bare. The intricate tattoos seemed to shift in the low light.
He looked up. Something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, heat, a quick, sharp pleasure. He leaned back, the old chair creaking under his weight. “Hey, little mouse.”
“Hello.” Her voice sounded small in the cavernous space.
“Couldn’t stay away?” The corner of his mouth hitched.
“I came to get my shirt. The flannel one.” It was a flimsy excuse. They both knew it.
He nodded slowly, gesturing to a coat hook on the wall where the grey flannel hung, clean and folded. “Right there.”
She didn’t move towards it. The air between them was thick, charged with everything unsaid and everything already done. He watched her, patient as a predator.
“Was that…” she began, then faltered. “Was that just… a one-time thing?”
He stood up, rounding the desk slowly. He didn’t touch her, just stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “Did it feel like a one-time thing to you?”
She remembered the feeling of being utterly unraveled, of coming apart on his tongue and then around him. She shook her head, a minute movement.
“Good.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his knuckle rough against her skin. “Because I’m not finished with you.”
The sound of the bay door rolling open made them both flinch. Heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete.
“Lando! You in the office?” Her brother’s voice, cheerful and booming, sliced through the tension.
Panic, cold and immediate, flooded Eleanor’s system. She stumbled back a step. Lando’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His expression was unreadable, but his grip was firm.
Jasper appeared in the doorway, a grin on his familiar face. He was tall, like their father, with Eleanor’s same light eyes but none of her hesitance. His gaze landed on her, and the grin widened. “Ellie! What are you doing here?”
“I… my shirt. I lent Lando a shirt. For… a thing.” Her tongue felt thick and useless.
Jasper laughed, stepping into the office and clapping Lando on the shoulder. “Since when do you borrow clothes from my sister? Worried about your image, finally?”
Lando released her wrist, his smirk returning effortlessly. “It was chilly last week. Needed an extra layer. She’s a good Samaritan.” His eyes cut to Ellie, a silent joke just for her. “Aren’t you, Ellie?”
“Right.” She hugged herself.
Jasper flopped into the cracked leather booth in the corner. “Don’t let me interrupt. I just dropped by to see if you were up for the game on Sunday. Mia’s making chili.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” Lando said, but his attention wasn’t on Jasper. He was looking at Eleanor, his gaze a physical weight. He leaned back against the desk, his posture deceptively casual. One hand rested on the scarred wood surface, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm.
Eleanor tried to breathe normally. Jasper launched into a story about a difficult client, his hands moving animatedly. She nodded along, forcing a smile onto her face.
Then she felt it. Lando’s foot, nudging her ankle. She glanced at him. His expression was neutral, listening to Jasper. But his foot hooked around her calf, drawing her incrementally closer to him, towards the space between his spread legs where he leaned against the desk.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Jasper was right there. He could see everything.
Except he couldn’t. The high front of the desk hid the lower half of Lando’s body. And hers.
Lando’s hand, the one that had been tapping, dropped casually to his side. His fingers brushed the hem of her skirt. A jolt, like live electricity, shot through her. She froze.
Jasper kept talking. “…so I told him the load-bearing wall wasn’t a suggestion, it was a fucking physics lesson…”
Lando’s fingers slipped under the wool of her skirt. His touch was shockingly warm on her thigh. He pushed the fabric up slowly, bunching it at her hips. The cool office air hit her bare skin. She wasn’t wearing tights. She’d been in a hurry.
His index finger traced a slow, maddening path up the inside of her thigh. Higher. Higher. Her breath hitched. She covered it with a cough, turning slightly away from Jasper, who was now digging in his pocket for his phone.
“You okay, El?” Jasper asked, not looking up.
“Fine. Dust,” she croaked.
Lando’s finger reached the damp heat at the apex of her thighs. He traced her through her thin cotton panties, a lazy, circular motion that made her knees tremble. She grabbed the edge of the desk to steady herself, her knuckles white.
He hooked a finger under the elastic waistband and pulled, drawing the fabric aside. The feeling of open, exposed air on her most intimate skin was terrifying. Exhilarating.
His fingertip found her slick core. He drew a slow, wet line through her folds. She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting copper. Jasper was showing Lando something on his phone now, leaning over the desk.
“See? The guy wanted a fucking aquarium wall in a high-rise. Can you believe it?”
Lando hummed in agreement, his face a mask of polite interest. And then he pushed a thick finger inside her, deep, without warning.
A strangled sound caught in Eleanor’s throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, her entire world narrowing to that one point of invasive, glorious penetration. He was inside her. With her brother three feet away.
“Ellie? You sure you’re okay? You look flushed.” Jasper’s voice cut through the haze.
She forced her eyes open. “Warm. It’s warm in here.”
Lando began to move his finger, a slow, in-and-out rhythm that was sheer torture. His thumb found her clit, applying a firm, steady pressure. She was wet, so wet she could hear the soft, obscene sound of his finger moving inside her. She prayed Jasper couldn’t.
He added a second finger, stretching her further. The fullness was intense. She was panting now, shallow little breaths she tried to mask by pretending to examine a nearby stack of tires in the garage. Lando’s other hand came up to rest on her hip, steadying her, his grip possessive.
“So, Sunday, then?” Jasper said, putting his phone away. He was preparing to leave. The torture was almost over.
But Lando was not slowing down. His fingers crooked inside her, pumping faster now, his thumb a relentless circle on her clit. The coil of tension in her belly was tightening, a spring wound to its breaking point. She was going to come. Right here, standing up, with her brother in the room.
She shook her head, a tiny, frantic movement. Stop.
He didn’t. His gaze held hers, dark and unyielding. Give in.
“Alright, I’m off,” Jasper said, standing up. He came over and kissed the top of Eleanor’s head. “See you later, weirdo.” He punched Lando lightly on the arm. “Don’t work too hard.”
“Never do,” Lando said, his voice even. His fingers never stopped their relentless, devastating rhythm.
Jasper’s footsteps faded. The bay door rumbled shut. The moment the sound sealed them in, Lando withdrew his fingers. The sudden emptiness was a shock.
He stood up from the desk. His gaze was black fire. With his wet fingers, he took her hand and placed her own dampness on her lips. “Taste.”
Dazed, she obeyed, the musky, intimate flavor bursting on her tongue.
“Good.” In one swift motion, he turned her around and bent her over the cluttered workbench. Grease-stained manuals and loose bolts skittered to the floor. He yanked her skirt up around her waist, fully exposing her now. The cool metal of the bench pressed against her cheek.
She heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of denim. Then his hands were on her hips, pulling her back towards him. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged against her, slick from her own arousal.
“Now,” he growled, his voice rough in her ear. “Where were we?”
He pushed into her in one solid, relentless thrust. No gentleness, no preamble. She cried out, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. He was deeper this way, the angle devastating. He filled her completely, stretching her to the limit.
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, his hips slamming against her ass with a force that rocked her whole body forward on the bench. Each impact was a jolt of pure sensation. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding her in place for his driving strokes.
“So fucking tight,” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “All clenched up from trying to be quiet for your brother.” He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his voice a raw whisper directly in her ear. “You came on my fingers with him in the room, didn’t you? You dirty little thing.”
The words, filthy and true, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. “Yes,” she gasped.
“Say it.”
“I… I almost came.”
He bit her shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her yelp. “You wanted to. Your cunt was pulsing for it.” He reached around, his hand sliding between her body and the bench, finding her clit again. “Come now. For me.”
It was too much—the crude words, the deep, brutal penetration, the skilled friction on her clit. The orgasm ripped through her like a shockwave, violent and blinding. She screamed, her vision whiting out, her inner muscles convulsing around him in rhythmic spasms.
He swore, a harsh, beautiful sound, and his rhythm fractured. With a few final, desperate thrusts, he drove into her, his body going rigid as he came. She felt the hot rush of him filling her, his groan a long, low vibration against her spine.
They collapsed together over the workbench, a tangle of spent limbs and hurried clothes. His weight was heavy, comforting. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of a refrigerator compressor.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He turned her in his arms, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His expression was serious, stripped of its usual smirk.
“Jasper can never know,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheek.
The reality of it crashed down. The deception. The risk. She nodded, a lump in her throat.
He searched her eyes. “This isn’t… it’s not just fucking, Ellie.” He said it like he was accusing her of something.
“I know.”
He kissed her then, deep and slow, a seal on a secret. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. “Take your shirt and go. Before I decide I need another round.”
She straightened her clothes with trembling hands. He plucked the folded flannel from the hook and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed.
She walked out of the garage, the smell of him and sex clinging to her skin. The flannel shirt in her hands felt like a promise, and a lie, all at once. As she turned the corner, she looked back. He stood in the bay door, a dark silhouette against the light, watching her go. He didn’t wave. He just watched until she was out of sight.