Chapter 9: Face-Riding Mechanic
The inspector’s call lingered like a bad smell in the shed. Marc stared at the transmission parts laid out on the tarp, but his mind was three thousand miles east, in the fluorescent glare of a city office. Red tags. Shutdown. A lifetime of grease and busted knuckles dissolving into bureaucratic sludge. He wiped his hands on a rag, the stain spreading like a blot of doubt.
The cabin door opened. Sydney stepped out, her script clutched to her chest like a shield. She’d heard his end of the call. Her eyes, sharp even across the misty clearing, scanned his face. “Trouble?”
“Paperwork,” he grunted, turning back to the gearbox. “Stan can handle it.”
“Can he?” She walked toward the shed, her boots silent on the damp pine needles. She stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame. The damp air had curled tendrils of hair at her temples. “You hung up on him.”
“I delegated.”
“You ran.” Her voice was quiet, no accusation, just observation.
He finally looked at her. “I’m here.”
“I know.” She entered, setting the script on a clean patch of workbench. She came up behind him, slid her arms around his waist, and pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades. “That’s what scares me. That you’ll realize what you gave up, and this…” She gestured at the shed, the parts, the rain, “…becomes something you resent.”
He turned in her arms. Her face was upturned, pale and serious. He saw the character’s grief still haunting the edges of her eyes, but beneath it was a fear far more personal. He kissed her forehead, tasting rain and sunscreen. “I fix things. That’s what I do. My garage is a thing. This is a thing.” He cupped her face. “You’re not a thing. It’s not a trade.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Instead, she kissed him, a deep, searching kiss that felt like a question. When she pulled back, her gaze had changed. The vulnerability hardened into a fierce, hungry certainty. The Hollywood ghost was gone, banished by a more immediate need.
“Prove it,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a husky register that went straight to his groin.
Her hands went to the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it up over his head. She tossed it onto the bench, atop a carburetor. Her fingers traced the grease smudges on his chest, her touch possessive. She unbuckled his belt with a sharp, efficient pull, the leather sighing as it came loose. She popped the button on his jeans, dragged the zipper down.
“Sydney,” he started, a caution about the cold, the grime.
“Shut up,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Just shut up and let me have you.”
She pushed his jeans and boxers down his thighs. His cock, already stirring, sprang free into the cool, oil-scented air. She dropped to her knees on the tarp, heedless of the grit. She didn’t pause. She took him fully into her mouth in one smooth, hot glide, her lips stretching around his girth. A groan ripped from his throat, echoed off the corrugated metal walls.
She worked him with a brutal, breathtaking expertise. No teasing, no play. This was a claiming. Her head bobbed rapidly, her throat relaxing to take him deep, again and again. The wet, slick sounds filled the shed, a raw soundtrack. One hand gripped the base of his shaft, twisting in counterpoint to her sucking. The other fondled his balls, rolling them, then drifting back to press firmly against the sensitive skin behind them.
“Fuck, your mouth,” he panted, his hands tangling in her hair, not guiding, just holding on.
She pulled off with a gasp, a strand of saliva connecting her lips to his shining tip. “You taste like this place,” she breathed, her own breath hot on his wet skin. “You taste like mine.” Then she was on him again, her tempo becoming erratic, hungry. He felt the tension coiling, the heat pooling.
“I’m close,” he warned, his hips jerking.
She released him, ignoring his protest. She stood up, her own hands going to her jeans. She shimmied out of them, out of her panties, kicking them aside. She was bare, glorious, her skin pebbled in the chill. Without ceremony, she climbed onto the low, sturdy workbench, scattering a few carefully arranged socket wrenches. They clattered to the floor.
“Here,” she commanded, lying back on the scarred wood. “Now.”
He stepped out of his jeans, moved between her legs. The sight of her sprawled across his workspace, her blonde hair fanning over the oil-stained wood, her pink flesh open and glistening for him, was the most potent image of his life. He drove into her in one long, unbroken thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, satisfied sound, her legs hooking around his hips, her heels digging into his ass. “Yes! God, yes, just like that. Harder. Fuck the doubt out of me.”
He obliged, setting a punishing rhythm. The bench shuddered with each impact. Her tits bounced, and she arched her back, offering them to him. He bent, taking a nipple into his mouth, biting down just shy of pain. She screamed, her inner muscles clamping around him like a vise.
“I can feel you everywhere,” she gasped, her nails raking down his back. “I can feel you in my garage, in my city, in my fucking bones. Don’t you dare leave.”
“I’m not,” he grunted, the words punching out with each thrust.
“Prove it,” she moaned again, her eyes wild. “Come inside me. Mark your territory, you bastard. Let me feel it for days.”
Her words, filthy and desperate, detonated the last of his control. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself to the hilt and came. A raw, guttural shout was torn from him as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing waves deep inside her. She clenched around him, milking every drop, her own climax hitting a second later, a shuddering, silent convulsion that made her body bow off the bench.
He collapsed over her, spent, his face buried in the curve of her neck. They breathed in ragged unison, the smell of sex and engine oil and pine sap weaving together. The rain picked up again, drumming a steady beat on the roof.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He saw his own release begin to seep from her, a white trickle onto the dark wood of the bench. She made no move to cover herself. She just lay there, watching him, her chest rising and falling.
After a long moment, she spoke, her voice hoarse. “The studio called. This morning.”
He went still. “And?”
“They want to extend. Two more weeks. The weather’s been fucked, they’re behind.” She watched his face. “It’s more money. A lot more. And… there’s talk of a festival. For the film. In the fall.”
He pushed himself up, looking down at her. “Okay.”
“That’s it? ‘Okay’?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say you’ll be there. At the festival. In a tux. On a red carpet. Surrounded by people who will ask you what you do, and you’ll say ‘I’m a mechanic,’ and they’ll smile like you’re joking.” Her eyes were bright, challenging. “I want you to say you’ll stand there and hold my hand while a thousand cameras make this,” she gestured between their naked bodies, “into a rumor. A headline.”
He looked at her, splayed on his workbench, filled with his come, demanding he step into a world he despised. He thought of the red tags, of Stan’s worried voice. He thought of the simple weight of a wrench in his hand, the clear problem of a seized bolt.
He reached out, traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “You’ll need a driver,” he said finally. “For the Bronco. When it’s done. It’s not a red carpet car. It’s better.”
A slow smile broke across her face, brilliant and real. It faded into something softer, more fragile. “It’s a lot to ask.”
“You’re not asking,” he said. He helped her sit up, then handed her her discarded thermal shirt. “You’re telling. It’s different.”
She pulled the shirt on, drowning in the smell of him. She hopped down from the bench, wincing slightly. They dressed in silence amidst the tools and scattered parts. The intimacy of the act was somehow deeper than what had preceded it—the careful re-donning of layers in the cold shed.
Later, as they ate soup at the small table, the script between them, she nudged his foot with hers. “The scene tomorrow,” she said. “It’s the big confrontation. My character finally loses it. Screams at her father. It’s… ugly.”
He sipped his coffee. “So you’ll be tired tomorrow night.”
“Exhausted. Hollowed out. Probably mean.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “The timing on this engine is a bitch. I’ll be pissed off, too.”
She laughed, and the sound was like light cracking through the perpetual gray. For a moment, the rain outside didn’t sound like an imprisonment, but an embrace, sealing them in their own world of wet wood, mutual need, and the silent, grinding work of building something that could, maybe, bear the weight of the world waiting for them both.
For a moment, the rain outside didn’t sound like an imprisonment, but an embrace, sealing them in their own world of wet wood, mutual need, and the silent, grinding work of building something that could, maybe, bear the weight of the world waiting for them both.
That night, the silence in the cabin had a different texture. It was no longer peaceful, but charged, like the air before a breaker trips. She washed the bowls, her back to him. He oiled the hinges on the stove door, the repetitive motion too sharp, too focused.
“You’re thinking about the red tags,” she said, not turning around.
The rag in his hand stilled. “I’m thinking about the torque sequence on a ’72 Bronco hub.”
“Bullshit.” She placed the last bowl on the rack, wiped her hands on her thighs. “You get quiet in a different way. Your shoulders go up around your ears.” She finally turned, leaning against the sink. “Call Stan back. Now. While I’m here.”
“I don’t need a fucking audience for my failure.”
“It’s not failure. It’s a problem. You solve problems.” She crossed her arms. “Or you hide up here and fuck me instead of facing it. Which is fine. Great, even. But it’s not a solution, Marc.”
He threw the rag down. “You want me to leave? Is that it? Because your schedule changed, you need a clean exit?”
Her face went pale, her eyes widening not with hurt, but with a sudden, clarifying anger. “You unbelievable asshole.” She pushed off the sink and walked toward the bedroom. “Forget it.”
He followed, the frustration from the shed, from the phone call, from the terrifying future she’d painted on the red carpet, boiling over. He caught her arm at the bedroom door. She whirled, yanking free.
“Don’t.”
“You don’t get to say that,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t get to poke the bear and then walk away.”
“I’m not poking you. I’m trying to see you. The whole, real, scared fucking man.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “The one who isn’t just a set of competent hands.”
He grabbed her wrist. She didn’t pull back. They stood there, breathing hard, a current of pure, undiluted fury arcing between them. It was hot, and ugly, and real. Her eyes dropped to his mouth.
Then she kissed him, or he kissed her—it was collision, not tenderness. Teeth clicked. It was a battle for dominance, a physical argument. Her hands clawed at his shirt, ripping a button free. He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the narrow bed and she fell onto it.
He followed her down, his weight pinning her. “This what you want?” he growled against her neck, his hand shoving her sweater up. “This instead of talking?”
“Yes,” she hissed, arching up to bite his shoulder through his shirt. “God, yes. Give me the real thing. Give me the pissed-off mechanic.”
He yanked her jeans and underwear down in one brutal motion. He was already hard, straining against his own denim. He freed himself, not bothering to undress further. He positioned himself at her entrance, saw the wetness glistening there already, proof this fight was just another kind of foreplay. He drove into her without ceremony.
The sound she made was pure satisfaction, a deep, guttural “ungh” that vibrated through his chest. She was tight, clenched from the anger. He set a relentless pace, each thrust a punishment and a pledge. The old bedframe slammed against the log wall in a steady, jarring rhythm.
“Is this—,” he grunted, “—honest enough for you?”
“Harder,” she demanded, her nails digging into his biceps. “Fuck your anger into me. All of it.”
He obliged, his hips pistoning. The heat built, coiling, unbearable. He could feel her tightening around him, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged cries. “I’m gonna come,” she gasped, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow.
“Look at me,” he commanded. Her blue eyes snapped to his, glassy with impending release. “See me.” He plunged deep and held there as she shattered, her inner muscles pulsing around him in violent waves. A choked scream tore from her throat.
The sensation tipped him over the edge. He came with a shuddering groan, spilling into her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. They lay locked together, sweat-slicked and spent, the only sound their ragged breathing and the creak of the settling bed.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He moved down her body, his hands spreading her thighs wider. He lowered his mouth to her, where she was swollen and slick with their combined release.
HE LICKS HER CLEAN AND SHE CREAMS ACROSS HIS FACE.
His tongue, rough and thorough, swept through her folds, tasting salt, sex, and the bitter tang of his own come. The overstimulation was too much. Her hips jerked off the mattress as a second, sharper climax seized her, wringing a final, broken cry from her lungs. Her release, hot and thin, coated his tongue, his chin, the scratch of his stubble.
He didn’t stop until she pushed weakly at his head, oversensitive and trembling. He rested his cheek on her inner thigh, breathing her in. The fury had burned away, leaving a weary, clean exhaustion.
“Stan gets the garage,” Marc said into the quiet, his voice hoarse. “I sign it over. He handles the city. It’s his problem now.”
Sydney’s hand found his hair, her fingers threading through the sweat-damp strands. “What do you get?”
He lifted his head, looked up the length of her body. “I get the Bronco. And I get to be your driver.” He paused. “If the offer’s still open.”
She watched him, her chest rising and falling. “It’s a shitty deal. You lose your business.”
“I keep my sanity. And maybe,” he said, crawling back up to lie beside her, pulling her into the crook of his arm, “I get something that isn’t just a thing to fix.”
She nestled closer, her leg thrown over his. “The festival is in Venice. In September.”
“I’ll need a suit.”
“I’ll buy you one.” She traced the bite mark on his shoulder. “They’ll ask what you do.”
“I’ll tell them I’m between garages.” He kissed the top of her head. “And that I’m currently employed as a keepsake.”
She pinched him, but she was smiling. Outside, the rain softened to a drizzle. The inspector’s call, the red carpet, the cameras—they were still there, waiting. But for now, the only headline was the steady beat of their hearts, slowly finding the same rhythm in the dark.
He woke to her weight settling onto his thighs, her palm already wrapped around his cock, working it stiff with slow, deliberate strokes. She leaned down over him, her hair dragging across his chest, and said nothing at first, just stroked until he was fully hard and aching in her fist. The rain had stopped, and in the quiet she pressed her mouth to his ear and whispered that she wanted his tongue. He woke to her weight settling onto his thighs, her palm already wrapped around his cock, working it stiff with slow, deliberate strokes. She leaned down over him, her hair dragging across his chest, and said nothing at first, just stroked until he was fully hard and aching in her fist. The rain had stopped, and in the quiet she pressed her mouth to his ear and whispered that she wanted his tongue.
He answered by pulling her up his body, both hands on her hips, until her knees bracketed his head. She braced her palms flat against the wall, looked down the length of her own flushed belly at him, and lowered herself onto his mouth. The first drag of her slick cunt across his tongue made her breath catch.
"Taste me, you fucking mechanic," she said, and rolled her hips.
He licked her open, flat tongue from hole to clit, then again. Her taste flooded him, salt and musk and the ghost of his own come from hours earlier. She ground down hard, smearing her juice across his stubble, and her hands reached back. One fist closed around the base of his cock. The other joined it, both hands working him in a tight, twisting pull while she fucked herself on his face.
He slid two fingers into his mouth alongside her, got them wet, then pressed them low and pushed into her ass. She screamed, back bowing, and he hooked them deep, sucking her swollen clit between his lips at the same moment. She came apart, thighs shaking, cream spilling hot down his chin.
She climbed off with a shudder and lay across him, wrecked. Then she said, "There's a press thing in the city Friday. I told them I'm bringing my mechanic."