Chapter 3: The Confession in the Garage
The photograph felt brittle in her hand, the glossy paper warped from more than just dried cum. It felt like a artifact from a religion only they practiced. Izzy stared at the stain across her own smiling face, then at Dom’s broad back as he bent into the engine bay, all focus and muscle. The garage was quiet except for the faint tink of a cooling metal part.
“How long?” The words came out flat, cutting the silence. “How long you been jerking off into my panties? Since when?”
He froze. His shoulders, usually a landscape of unshakeable certainty, tensed. He straightened with a slow, deliberate motion, like a beast aware of a trap. He wiped his hands on a rag already black with grease, the motion methodical, buying time. When he turned, his dark eyes were unguarded, stripped bare. The usual protective wall was down. What was left was raw, a little dangerous, and utterly honest.
“Since you were eighteen,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the concrete floor. “The night of Micah’s party. You came home wasted, smelling of cheap beer and that boy’s cologne.” He took a step toward her, the rag falling from his fingers. “You passed out on the couch. I carried you to bed. Your jeans were on the floor, and those little lace things were inside them. I picked them up.”
He was close now. She could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar through his eyebrow. He didn’t touch her.
“I held them to my face,” he continued, the confession leaving him in a hoarse whisper. “I could smell you on them. You, and the night, and just… youth. I sat right there on your bed, with you sleeping, and I came so hard I soaked through the fabric. Felt like my spine was gonna shoot out my cock.”
Izzy’s breath hitched. Her core, still tender from their earlier fucking against the car, clenched tight. A possessive heat, sharp and sweet, flooded her.
“Every night since,” he said, his hand finally coming up to cup her jaw. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “When I need to feel close. When the world gets too loud and it’s just me in that room. I’ve got a drawer full. I smell you. It’s the only thing that quiets the noise.”
The image was devastating. Him, alone in his room, surrounded by her scent, finding his solace in the most forbidden of places. It wasn’t just arousal she felt. It was a profound, dizzying power. She had done that to him. She was his scripture.
The photograph fluttered from her numb fingers. It landed face-up on an oily patch of concrete. She didn’t look at it. Her eyes were locked on his as her hands went to his belt. The leather was worn, the buckle cool. She yanked him forward.
“Show me,” she demanded, her voice husky. “Right now. Show me how you do it.”
A flicker of something—surprise, conflict—crossed his face, then was gone, replaced by a dark hunger. He let her pull him the few steps to the cluttered workbench. With a sweep of his arm, he sent wrenches and socket sets clattering to the floor. The noise was startling, final.
He unbuckled the belt himself, button and zipper following. He pushed his jeans and briefs down just enough. His cock, already thick and hardening rapidly, sprang free. It was flushed, the head dark and wet. He took her right hand, his grip firm, and wrapped her fingers around his shaft.
Her skin was cool against his heat. He was solid, a pulse thrumming under the velvet skin.
“Like this,” he grunted, moving her fist in a slow, tight slide from root to tip. His own hand covered hers, guiding the pressure. “Slow at first. Just feeling it. Thinking about the way you looked that night. The way your mouth curves when you’re about to say something smart.”
He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth. It tasted of coffee and him. As he kissed her, he pumped their joined hands faster, the rhythm becoming urgent, selfish. The slick sound of her fist on his cock was obscenely loud. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, breath hot and ragged.
“Thinking about your mouth somewhere else,” he panted. “Wrapping those pretty lips around me. Taking me all the way down your throat.”
A current of pure need jolted through her. She pulled her hand from his grip and dropped to her knees on the concrete floor. The hard surface bit into her bones. She didn’t care.
“I want to taste it,” she whispered, looking up at him. His face was a mask of strained control, eyes burning down at her. “I want to taste what you spilled on my picture.”
A low groan escaped him. He fisted a hand in her hair, not forcing, just holding. “Then fucking take it.”
She didn’t need more invitation. She opened her mouth and took him in, her tongue flattening against the thick underside. She pushed forward, relaxing her throat, taking him deeper until her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base. He was everywhere, a heavy, salt-and-skin taste flooding her senses. She pulled back slowly, then sank down again, establishing a rhythm.
“Yeah,” he choked out. His hips gave a shallow thrust, fucking up into the wet heat of her mouth. “Just like that. God, just like that, Izzy.”
Her world narrowed to this: the musk of him, the weight on her tongue, the tight grip in her curls, the grunt he made every time she swallowed around him. She worked him with dedication, one hand braced on his thigh, the other cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently. She was claiming him back, consuming the evidence of his obsession.
His movements became less controlled, his thrusts deeper, more urgent. His breathing turned to ragged pants.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained. “Gonna fill that pretty mouth. You wanna swallow it? You wanna swallow every fucking drop?”
She answered by sucking harder, hollowing her cheeks, her eyes watering as she took him as deep as she could. It was all the permission he needed.
With a final, deep drive that made her gag slightly, he erupted. Hot, bitter pulses shot against the back of her throat. She kept her mouth sealed around him, swallowing convulsively as he emptied himself, shuddering above her. He tasted of salt and life and something uniquely, essentially him. She drank him down until he was spent, soft, slipping from her lips.
She stayed on her knees, catching her breath, looking up at him. He was braced against the workbench, head bowed, utterly wrecked. Gently, he loosened his grip on her hair, his fingers combing through the tangles he’d made.
He tugged his jeans up with one hand, the other reaching down to her. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet.