Chapter 6: Garage Confrontation
The taste of him was still in her mouth, bitter and salty, a claim that had sunk into her throat. Mia knelt on the cold concrete, the gritty texture biting into her bare knees through the denim of her jeans, which were pooled around her ankles. Her vision swam, tears of strain and something else—rage, maybe, or a shocking, unwanted thrill—blurring the oil stains on the floor. Jose’s hand, rough and calloused, stayed tangled in her hair, not pushing, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring her to the moment, to the fact of what had just happened.
He let go.
She heard the soft rustle of his jeans as he zipped up, the metallic click of the buckle. A heavy silence pressed in, broken only by the distant drip of a faucet and the frantic drum of her own heartbeat in her ears. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
“Get up,” his voice was low, stripped of the growl, leaving just a hollowed-out weariness.
Mia dragged the back of her hand across her mouth, swallowing hard. She tugged her jeans up, the button cool against her trembling fingers. When she stood, her legs threatened to buckle. She leaned against the tool bench, the metal edge digging into her thigh. Jose stood by the workbench, his back to her, pouring a finger of whiskey into a grimy glass. He didn’t offer her any.
“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” Her voice came out ragged, scratched raw.
He knocked the whiskey back in one go, the glass meeting the bench with a definitive tap. “Yeah. I know.”
He finally turned. The fury had drained from his face, leaving behind a stark, almost brutal clarity. His eyes, dark and intent, tracked to the bruise blooming on her shoulder—Chris’s bruise, the one he’d bit into her at dawn—then down to the red marks his own fingers had left on her hips. A muscle in his jaw feathered.
“Why’d you come here, Mia?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. After Chris had left, after she’d stood in her shower scrubbing at the feeling of him until her skin was pink, she’d just needed to move. To get out. The garage had been a magnetic pull, a stupid, self-destructive orbit.
“You smell like him,” Jose said, flatly. “That pretentious fucking sandalwood shit. It’s all over you.”
“So you thought you’d just fuck it out of me?” She shoved off from the bench, anger returning in a hot wave. “That’s your solution? To treat me like a piece of meat on your bench?”
“You walked in here with another man’s mark on your skin!” He took a step toward her, and for a second, the violence flickered back in his eyes. “What did you think was gonna happen? You wanted a fucking hug?”
“I didn’t know what I wanted!” she shouted, the words echoing off the high garage ceiling. “But I sure as hell didn’t want that! Not like that!”
The lie hung between them, transparent and pathetic. The damp heat between her legs, the aching, well-used throbbing, betrayed her. He saw it. He always saw everything.
His expression shifted, the anger dissolving into something more complicated, more dangerous. He closed the distance slowly, until she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the sweat and grease and whiskey on him. He caged her against the bench again, but this time his hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs rough on her cheekbones.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his breath warm against her lips. “Right now. Tell me to get the hell away from you, and I’ll walk out that door. I won’t come back.”
Her breath hitched. The vulnerability in his eyes, raw and unveiled, was more disarming than any show of force. This was the hidden tenderness, the crack in the marine’s armor, and it terrified her. It demanded an honesty she wasn’t sure she possessed.
She didn’t tell him to stop.
A low sound escaped him, half sigh, half groan. His mouth crashed down on hers, not in punishment, but in possession. This kiss was different. It was deep, searching, a conversation without words. His tongue swept into her mouth, erasing the last phantom taste of Chris, replacing it with the dark, smoky flavor of him. She kissed him back, her hands fisting in the worn cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer until not a sliver of light could pass between them.
He walked her backwards, never breaking the kiss, until her back met the cold, riveted metal of the motorcycle fuel tank. He yanked her shirt over her head, and his mouth left hers to trail down her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over Chris’s bite mark before he soothed it with his tongue, as if claiming it retroactively.
“Mine,” he breathed against her skin, the word a vibration that went straight to her core.
He unhooked her bra, and his large, grease-stained hands covered her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were hard, aching points. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth, sucking hard, and Mia cried out, her head falling back against the handlebars.
He worked her jeans and panties down her legs again, letting them fall. The cold air of the garage kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands were everywhere, warming her. He turned her gently, bending her over the seat of the chopper. The leather was cool and smooth against her cheek, the scent of it rich and animal.
She heard the tear of a foil packet, the rustle of his jeans. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of him, not at her entrance, but pushing against her other hole.
“Jose,” she gasped, tensing.
“Relax,” he whispered, his mouth at her ear. One hand slid around her front, fingers delving into the wetness between her legs, gathering it, before sliding back to slick her tight, forbidden opening. “I’ll go slow. But I need this. Need to be in the place he’s never been.”
The admission, so stark and needy, unraveled her last resistance. She let out a shuddering breath, forcing her muscles to relax. He pushed, slowly, an inexorable, burning stretch that made her whimper into the leather. He stilled, letting her adjust, his other hand stroking her hip.
“Okay?” he rasped.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Yeah, fuck. Just… move.”
He began to, with a slow, devastating precision that was utterly unlike the frantic pounding from before. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a deep, re-claiming possession. The sensation was overwhelming, a filthy, exquisite fullness that had her clawing at the motorcycle seat. He reached around again, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight, urgent circles in time with his thrusts.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his pace increasing slightly. “That’s me. All me. You’re gonna come with my cock in your ass, and you’re gonna forget his fucking name.”
It was a command, and her body obeyed. The orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming, clenching around the intense intrusion, milking him. Her cry was muffled by the leather.
His control shattered. With a harsh groan, he drove into her one last, deep time, his body going rigid against hers. She felt the hot, sudden pulse of him inside her, a final, liquid claim. He collapsed over her, his weight a comforting pressure, his face buried in her neck, his breath coming in ragged gusts.
They stayed like that for long minutes, joined, the garage silent except for their slowing breaths. The world outside, Chris, the croissant on her floor—it all felt like a distant, poorly-remembered dream.
Finally, he softened and slipped out of her. He helped her stand, her legs wobbly. Without a word, he grabbed a relatively clean rag from the bench, wet it from a water bottle, and gently cleaned her between her thighs. The tenderness of the act, after the raw act, made her throat tight.
He pulled his jeans up, then handed her clothes back to her. She dressed in the heavy quiet.
“Stay,” he said, not looking at her, as he lit a cigarette. “Or go. But if you go to him again, don’t come back here.”
He said it plainly. A boundary, not a threat.
Mia walked to the garage door, pushing it open. The afternoon sun was sharp, cleaving the oily darkness in two. She paused on the threshold, looking back at him. He stood amidst the skeletons of machines, smoke curling around his head, watching her with those unreadable dark eyes.
She didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing. She stepped into the light, pulling the door closed behind her, leaving the scent of gasoline, sex, and him clinging to her skin.