Blue-Collar Boys - Repairs & Maintenance (Book 2: Steamy Erotic Romance Stories) (3 page)

He lowered himself to his knees and ran his hand up the side of her inner thighs, pushing the nylon of her nightgown up past her cotton panties.  He rested his ear against her stomach, listening to her body, feeling her breath rise and fall with increased desire.  She ran her fingernails over the prickly stubble on the nape of his neck, massaging Camper’s scalp the way that she wanted him to massage her.  Audrey arched her back and moaned; Camper’s fingers had slipped under her panties.  She drew her bare feet up the bed’s mattress and tilted her pelvic bone upwards, granting him full access inside her.  He was touching her with the same confidence he used when testing electrical wires for a live current, as if at any moment, he might stumble upon a spark that would shock them both.  Stretching her arms overhead and clasping her hands around her cast-iron bedframe, Audrey suddenly relaxed, knees-parted, allowing Camper’s fingers to slip deep inside her, his palm cupping her crotch, stroking her rhythmically, sensually, progressively with repetition.  It had been over a year since a man—her former husband—had touched her in this way, and even Jack had never touched her like this.  Camper was fingering her now, building her up, watching her carefully as her hands gripped the loose bed sheets.  Her nipples hardened with pleasure.  The muscles in her thighs contracted, then relaxed.  Audrey could feel his desires through his fingers.  He was petitioning her for a second invitation—an invitation to come fully inside her.

She towed him closer and kissed him as deeply as he was fingering her, their tongues entwining in her mouth, mimicking the wet sensation between her legs.  The pale moonlight glinted off his white T-shirt, stretching tight over his young, athletic chest.  Audrey worked to unhinge the metal clasps of his overall straps while Camper seized the waist band of Audrey’s cotton white panties and stripped them down her legs.  Audrey pulled down the rest of Camper’s overalls, tearing away the limitations of his workman’s identity and exposing a young man who was in his prime for exploring something better in his life.

She watched him in the dark as he peeled off his T-shirt and boxers and covered Audrey’s naked body with his own.  His body was hard and heavy, warm and smothering.  His tongue flowed all over her with the tingling sensation of static.  Her whole body shivered with an electrical charge.  He was showing her how much he wanted her.  His whole life, he had learned to repress his feelings of anger and helplessness.  Now, he couldn’t repress his need to be inside her.  What had started as a curious attraction—the gentle touch of her hand during that first handshake—had turned into a need to consume her.  Every time she tried to communicate with him, he was already watching her and listening in his own way, wondering why such a beautiful woman was choosing to spend all of her nights—alone. 

Audrey spread open her legs, feeling the warm, slick tip of Camper’s erection, then the first penetration.  She gasped,
it had been so long
.  Then, her fingernails dug into his shoulder blades, his muscles expanding and contracting with his thrusting rhythm.  His nose ran down her neck, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo and face lotion.  He cradled her mouth in his neck, seeking out her hot breath, enveloped her whole being, and pressed his sleek chest against her bare breasts.  She ground her pelvis against his own.  She was telling him to drive deeper and deeper, but he was making her wait for it—the same way he made her wait for eye contact, whenever she greeted him on the porch in the morning, or when she needed help stringing up the Christmas lights.  He was holding back, self-controlled and reserved, and yet, committed until the end.  Audrey could feel the slow burn, quivering volts of arousal, pulsing and receding, pulsing and receding....  Camper’s restraint grounded the spark between her legs.  A damp tingle filled her, like a tongue testing a battery, before Camper accelerated his penetrations.  His thumb pushed against her mouth.  Audrey sucked on it, hard.  She suddenly raised up her arms; Camper held down her wrists as she seized with a profound need to release the single, most hateful belief about herself—that she would never be wanted by another man again, a belief that she had been holding onto for years, one that she had reinforced with every failure she had ever experienced in her life.  Now, Audrey opened her mouth and released it with a scream—a vocal mixture of protest and exhilaration.  And although Camper couldn’t hear it, he felt the vibrations of her voice against his neck, a sign from Audrey that he was setting her free from all the inhibitions the world had placed on her—and all the inhibitions that she had placed on herself.

Audrey suddenly relaxed and felt Camper’s body drop against her chest with an exhale.  He spooned her body, his nose and mouth nestled close to her ear as he muttered his first—and only—inaudible word to her.  Then, his body fell away from her, but his hand enveloped her own.  Audrey could feel the beating of his heart through his pulsing palm as they lay together in silence, watching the Christmas lights flicker like rain drops across the bedroom window and slipping away into the liberating sensation of a new beginning.

Shane

Angela Castello was the managing editor of CHIC magazine, a glamour glossy for stylish, upwardly-mobile women with stylish, upwardly-mobile salaries.  Angela loved her job.  And she loved CHIC magazine—with its hundreds of photos of gorgeous and glamorous women— because Angela’s own life was less than glamorous.  Angela was intelligent and successful, but unlike the fantasy fashionista models who were photographed in CHIC magazine, her life was not fun and frivolous.  She had never run barefoot down the Champs-Elysées in a
couture
wedding gown, nor sipped champagne while sitting on a bench in Central Park next to a man in a tuxedo with enviable cheek bones, nor delivered a corporate presentation wearing a high-powered business suit and red stiletto heels.  In fact, as managing editor of CHIC magazine, Angela was keenly aware that these images were unobtainable fantasies—or, at least—unobtainable for professional career women like her.   

Angela was smart and sensible, and she knew her limitations.  She wore funky retro glasses to pull attention away from her crooked nose, and she dressed in snazzy patterned pants and loose poet blouses to distract from her short torso and heavy cleavage.  She never went out for drinks with her staff because there was always a deadline to be met, and she rarely went out with her friends on the weekend because she was always too exhausted.  Her corporate schedule was booked up with editorial meetings, business management meetings, budgetary meetings, assignment meetings, layout and design meetings, photo review meetings, and more editorial meetings followed by assignment emails, fact-checking emails, printing press emails, advertiser emails, and corporate bureaucracy emails.  And before Angela would have a chance to finish writing all her corporate emails or telephoning contributors who were late with their assignments, it was already dinner time.  She barely even noticed the sun setting in a blur from her corner office, nor did she ever consider that she had passed through another day without stepping foot outside for some fresh air.  In fact, it wasn’t until Angela heard the whirling of the cleaning crew’s vacuum that she finally shut off her computer, packed up her things, and headed home on the commuter train, rushing through the evening in darkness.

When she arrived home, Angela always dropped her briefcase and business coat like chains near her doorway and headed straight for the kitchen.  Famished from skipping lunch, she tore open her freezer, pulled out her favorite TV dinner—chicken teriyaki with sugar snap peas and water chestnuts—and flung the entire package into her microwave for one QUICKCOOK minute.  Angela never ate out of the plastic tray.  Instead, she always emptied the meal onto a porcelain plate, freshly cleaned by her dishwasher the night before, and sliced the chicken breast with her finest silverware and savored the civilized moment.  Some people went to the gym after work.  Others zoned out in front of the TV.  For Angela, relaxation came from eating dinner in leisure silence.  After a twelve-hour work day, Angela barely had the energy to launder her dirty clothes or open her mail, but she did always manage to clean her dirty dishes by religiously loading up her dishwasher.  Then, Angela changed into her pajamas, crawled into bed with her mystery novel, and hunkered down under her covers while listening to the soothing purr of her dishwasher, which almost always put her right to sleep.  In fact, the only thing quieter than her dishwasher was her sex life.

Angela could barely keep her goldfish alive, much less maintain an active love life.  And, unlike the fantasy fashionista models in CHIC magazine, Angela certainly wasn’t the type to have quickies in the corporate storage closet.  But that didn’t mean she was a prude.  Like most single, thirty-something professional women, she had thoroughly considered the dating potential of all her male co-workers.  Unfortunately, her options were limited.  There was Tom Foresythe, Director of Advertising and Development, who was happily married with three kids and two dogs.  David Guttman, Chief Revenue Officer, who was handsome, sophisticated, and completely obsessed with fantasy football and internet gambling.  Rupert Sizemore, Art Director, who everyone knew was really gay—except Rupert.  Marshall Black, Freelance Photographer, who Angela had developed a crush on until she found out that he had already slept with half the marketing department.  Carl Boyle, Accounts Payable, who was overweight and overly nice—in that sad, pathetic sort of way.  And Walker Hamilton, IT consultant, who had both his nose and eyebrow pierced and often connected them with a silver chain.  Walker Hamilton was energetic, edgy, and cute; and yet, he was young enough to be Angela’s little brother and lacked the ability to discuss topics that didn’t involve RAM, bandwidth, or connectivity.  Indeed, there was zero connectivity in Angela’s love life, and with every month that passed, she simply grew accustomed to being a stylish, upwardly-mobile woman—by herself.

For this reason, when Angela awoke the next morning, she expected to repeat the same day as she had always repeated it for the past five years.  But not this morning.  This morning was different because Angela discovered that her dishwasher was broken.  Not exactly
broken
; but not exactly working properly either.  During the night, the dial had stalled on RINSE/HOLD, and never accelerated through a full wash cycle.  Instead of spotless dishes, pleasantly warm to the touch, her plates were dirty and moist.  And although she had sponged them clean before loading them into the dishwasher, her silverware still had a thin film of teriyaki sauce on their tips, and her glasses were still cloudy with a filmy residue—a mixture of soap and milk.  It was a shattering discovery, one that Angela pushed out of her mind throughout her entire work day until she arrived home and realized she had left the dirty dishes in her sink—to deal with later. 

Angela no longer fell asleep to the relaxing whirl of her dishwasher; instead, she lay awake, tossing and turning, wondering how she was going to make the time to deal with an appliance repairman.  On the third night, when the squalor in her kitchen had peaked, Angela awoke from the nightmare of losing her teeth because everything she ate turned soggy after touching her dirty plates.  Suddenly, she pulled herself out of bed and rummaged in the dark through the messy drawers of her apartment.  She found what she was looking for—the manual for her dishwasher.  There was a toll-free repair number on its back flap, and in her desperation, Angela dialed.  To her surprise, she was connected to a service representative in India, or Malaysia, or Bangladesh, or one of those wonderful Asian countries that was sprightly awake at 2:30 in the morning.  They told Angela that her dishwasher was still under extended warranty, which meant a new appliance would be delivered to her apartment first thing in the morning. Angela could hardly believe her luck. 
Was she still dreaming
?  If so, she never wanted to wake up again.  Angela stumbled through the dark and crawled back into her bed with a newfound love for her broken dishwasher.  But she loved herself even more for buying the extended warranty.

* * * *

The next morning, Angela jolted awake to the sound of her door buzzer.  She had finally fallen asleep around three o’clock in the morning, and consequently, slept through her alarm.  She had forgotten all about her life, her job, and her scheduled delivery.  Now, dazed and half-naked, Angela stumbled out of bed to answer her intercom.

“Yes?”

“Dishwasher—” the voice called back.

Angela buzzed open the front door, then barely had a chance to brush her teeth, brush through her hair, and zip up her red velvet pants before she heard the knock at her door. 

“It’s open—” she called, slipping on her glasses and slapping on her powder-fresh deodorant.   There was no time for a bra or blouse, so Angela’s delivery man would just have to deal with her braless, button-down pajama top. 

Angela watched as the delivery man bullied through her doorway with her new dishwasher. 

“Hallo,” the deliveryman called into the air with his cocky, British accent. “Santa Claus, here.  Have you been naughty or nice?”

“Nice—” Angela answered slowly. 

Angela
knew
that British accent and randy sense of humor.  It had buried itself as a wistful, nostalgic memory, locked away for the past five years.  But now, its familiarity was back and it had taken the surreal form of her dishwasher deliveryman. 

 “Making my way straight to the kitchen—” he confirmed, towing her new dishwasher on an upright dolly through her apartment, carefully navigating between piles of unwashed clothes and towers of last year’s fashion magazines. He lowered her new dishwasher on his dolly and knelt down in front of her broken one.  His arm fished under her sink cabinet to shut off the water supply, and she was certain she recognized the ornamental dragon tattoo that snaked down his neck and around his bicep.

“I gotta tie-off this old one before installing the new—”  He glanced up at her, his piercing blue eyes flashing like prisms in recognition. “Bloody hell—Sassy, it’s you.”