Blue-Collar Boys - Repairs & Maintenance (Book 2: Steamy Erotic Romance Stories) (5 page)

“Five years is a long time, Shane.  Maybe too long—”

But before Angela could articulate the anxiety in her heart, Shane consumed her with a fierce, unrelenting kiss, the metallic ball of his tongue piercing rolling over her own tongue without restraint.  Their open-mouth kissing soon fell into a timeless moment of bliss.  For five long years, Angela had repressed her passion for him.  Now, her heart pulsed with fervor and anticipation.  She gave herself permission to lean deeper against Shane’s chest.  Shane followed her cue and snaked his arms tighter around her waist. 

“I want you,” he whispered as she raced her fingers through his bleached blonde tufts of hair. 

Angela had imagined Shane saying those words to her so many times that it was hard to believe that he was saying them now. 

“I want you—”  he exhaled again, sucking her neck with ferocity, determined to take them both to the next level.

Angela understood and unbuttoned his navy shirt and ran her palm along the smooth pectorals of his chest.  Angela had seen Shane’s bare chest before.  He used to rip of his T-shirt on stage and drum—sweaty and bare-chested—for the entire night.  Now, her nails clung onto his sculpted pecks, her palms firmly planted against his racing heart.  Shane’s hand crossed her shoulder blades, down the small of her back, and over her backside—the same way he would cover the entire surface of his drums when he rolled through a rhythm transition.  He engulfed her earlobe with his lips, then slid his mouth around her chin before plunging deep into her open neckline and devouring the satin cups of her sheer lace bra. 
Yes, she wanted this
… Angela pressed her hands against her kitchen counter as Shane pressed his whole body against her own.  He was indulging in her tits with long, penetrating sucks, and there was no little voice in the back of Angela’s mind telling her that it was wrong.  The only thing running through Angela’s mind was the tingling sensation between her legs as Shane’s hand swept under the folds of her dress, up the back of her thigh, and circled over her front of her silk panties, Shane’s fingers forking over her crotch. 

God, yes
… Angela raised her knee higher and pushed her pelvis deeper against Shane’s hand.  She unbuckled his belt and forced her hands deep into his button fly jeans, feeling his bare erection.  He wore no underwear.  Over-worked, under-sexed, Angela Castello had officially become exactly like one of the spontaneous fashionista models in CHIC magazine, and there was nothing that could interrupt the fantasy of the moment that she was
actually
experiencing… nothing, except the strange and distracting sensation of something warm and soapy slithering across her bare feet.

Angela peered down at the white suds oozing out of her new dishwasher, building up like a mountain of whip cream along her kitchen floor.  “Shane!”

“Bloody hell!—”

Angela glanced over her kitchen sink.  Her container of dishsoap—once full—was now almost empty.

“Did you put
that
into my dishwasher?”

“Well, yeah.  Isn’t that what it’s there for?”

Angela watched as her dishwasher suddenly belched out more billowy suds. “No, not exactly.”

 “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, swiping up a handful of foam and smearing them across her neckline.  Then, without warning, Shane pinned back her arms, flicked on the faucet, and pulled out the retractable spray hose.  With his other hand, he simultaneously unfastening her bra and released a warm, wet shower down her exposed breasts.  Angela jumped, trying to wrestle away the spray head from his hand.  But Shane was stronger—and more determined to have his way with her.

He tongued her deeply and forced the spray head between her legs.  Angela cried out with an involuntary shiver as the warm, wet sensation penetrated into her crotch.  But he tightened his hold, suffocating her into submission.  The spray head massaged her clitoris with unyielding stimulation; she could feel herself relinquishing control and giving in to the tremors and vibrations.  Angela clung onto him, fearing he would stop early if she let go.  Her dishwasher rinsed and churned, releasing the soapy pressure of foam through its front door.  Shane reached out for puffs of lather and smeared them around her backside.  The spray of the water, the tickle of the foam, Shane’s firm commanding embrace.  Angela exhaled and raised her eyes and chin to the ceiling as Shane replaced the spray head with his fingers.  She had fantasized about Shane touching her this way before; but even in her forbidden fantasies, she never had the courage to abandon herself the way she was abandoning herself now. 

Suddenly, Shane embraced Angela tighter in his arms and sunk them down into the playground of bubbles—a white wonderland of frothy delight.  She relaxed her head against the hardwood floor, the pooling water and foam suds saturating her hair and crowding around her ears, encasing all sounds into sudsy, muffled silence. She watched as Shane pushed up the flowing hem of her dress and slipped off her panties with his teeth, smearing white suds up her thighs and between her legs.  Then, he smothered his body over hers.  She opened her mouth with a silent gasp.  With one swift motion, the weight of his masculine body pushed his cock between her legs and deep inside her.  His mouth searched for her mouth, and they locked tongues and breaths.  Angela circled her fingernails over her pecks, digging them deep into the contracting muscles of his dragon tattoo every time he penetrated her, then withdrew.  She arched her back, grinding her G-spot against Shane’s pubic bone, allowing his thrusts to shift her into uninhibited vibrations.  It was all happening now—the way that Angela had always wanted it, but never dared imagine it.  And it was better than any glossy CHIC magazine page.  She was building in a way that she had never imagined, climaxing with a violence that made Shane drive faster and faster, deeper and deeper, until Angela released an exhilarating yelp of pleasure, signaling that she was no longer a boring workaholic who had never had sex on her kitchen floor. 
Damn it
!

Angela felt the warmth of the suds against her skin and the warmth of his cum as he exhaled and exploded inside her.  A perfect circular bubble rose out of the foamy aftermath and spiraled through the air, twisting with prismatic colors.  Shane pulled back onto his knees, and gazed at Angela with his own prismatic eyes.  He smiled.  She smiled.  Then, she glanced over to her dishwasher, which was now still and silent. 

“How do you like your new dishwasher, Sassy?” he suddenly asked, catching the bubble in his palm and guiding it towards Angela.

Angela sat up on her elbows, accepting the bubble into her own hand. “I like my new dishwasher,” she replied before popping the bubble with her fingernail.  “But I like my dishwasher delivery man even more.”

Bruno

Lydia Simpson suffered from agoraphobia.  Her sister said it sounded like a fancy excuse for refusing to be set-up on blind dates.  But Lydia knew the sensation of sweaty panic was more than a fancy excuse.  It was a crushing fear that gripped her heart and squeezed it into her throat every time she stepped outside to face the callous, insensitive world of strangers and their judgments.  It was an acute fear of unfamiliar people and places that haunted Lydia like an oppressive shadow.  It was an anxiety that made her so ashamed of herself that she couldn’t even make eye contact with the grocery store cashier after he brushed her hand while depositing her change into her palm.  Her agoraphobia prevented her from venturing into public situations beyond her control.  She preferred to remain inside her house, where she felt protected from the bustling chaos and random unpredictability of life.  Life was something that happened to everyone else.  For Lydia, life was a controlled routine within the protective walls of her single-family home—which ironically kept her hopelessly single. 

It wasn’t as if Lydia was a complete prude.  She
had
tried internet dating.  But the process of finding someone compatible was hindered by the fact that Lydia never showed up for any of the dates.  Although she spent hours and hours online, posting in chat groups or surfing the profiles of eligible men, Lydia never had having any intention of making those online connections a reality.  It was merely entertainment, a silly distraction from the financial necessity of day-trading stocks.  Without a real job, or a real boyfriend, or a real life, Lydia twiddled her hours away on the computers—shopping for groceries and clothes, downloading music, and researching exotic travel destinations of all the places she’d like to see if wasn’t terrified to leave her house.  Her computer was Lydia’s only portal to the outside world.  In fact, the only thing Lydia spent more time doing than surfing the internet was day-dreaming while gazing out her bedroom window. 

Sometimes, her mind would drift away from her computer and settle on the large oak tree in her neighbor’s yard.  Its massive sturdy trunk flanked her house, just along the property line.  Lydia liked to imagine that if it was her tree, she would escape her house at the stroke of midnight, and plant purple sage and red chrysanthemums around its base under glistening sheen of moonlight.  And even though the old oak tree
wasn’t
hers, she loved it like it was.  She took comfort in the stamina of that tree, and its ability to stand strong under the threat of urban sprawl, surviving so many forces outside of its control.  At the start of dusk, twilight dappled its tangled maze of branches.  Lydia would stop her internet surfing and listen to the swaying canopy of its rustling leaves, contemplating the fact that she had passed another day without leaving her house.  The tree served as a reminder to Lydia that even though she didn’t have the strength to face the harsh uncertainties of the life outside her home, nature had somehow found the strength.  And that strength was beautiful.

* * * *

The next morning, Lydia awoke to the vrooming grind of a chain saw.  The chisel of the saw was quickly followed by the shrill peel of steel scissoring against wood.  There was a cracking
snaaaaaaap
—a joint popping out of its socket—followed by a thunderous crash, as the amputated branch dropped through the air and smashed against the concrete sidewalk, shattering into dozens of brittle bits like a petrified corpse.

Lydia rushed to the window and thrust her head outside.  The dewy air glazed her neck and cheeks, and the tree’s golden umbrella of leaves glowed down on her like the warmth of the sun.  But on this day, everything was not beautiful and peaceful.  Lydia spotted the problem immediately.  There was a man in her tree.  And not just any man—a murderous man with a chain saw.  He wore an army green jump suit and a red bandana, which hid his unruly mop of brown hair.  Only curly tufts eked out behind his ears.  Aviator sunglasses covered his eyes, and yellow ear plugs drowned out Lydia’s shrieking.

The tree-pruner registered Lydia’s round mouth forming the same syllables over and over—syllables of distress and horror.  But it was her porcelain skin and red flowing hair that made him halt his chain saw, long enough to note that the girl flailing out the window reminded him of Rapunzel. 

The tree-pruner squinted and waved his gloved hand around his ear as he swatted away her protests. “Can’t hear you.  Ear plugs.”

He powered up the chain saw and sliced off another branch like it was a useless finger.

“Stop!  Killing!  My! Tree!” Lydia screamed, waving her arms out the window, flapping like an injured bird, attempting to take flight.

This time, the tree-pruner cracked his gum and chewed on the image of Rapunzel, flinging herself out of the window and belly-flopping onto the neighbor’s spiked iron fence.  It was a liability claim he didn’t want to have to explain to his boss.  He braced himself in the crux of a branch, powered down his chain saw, and removed the left plug from his ear. 

“Well, hello there,” the tree-pruner greeted her, gnashing his teeth back and forth, mimicking the grinding vibrations of the chain saw.

 “What
exactly
do you think you’re doing?”

The tree-pruner glanced down at his chain saw and up at his rigging lines.  “Why… I’m having a tea party.  Wanna join me?”

“No, I want you to stop cutting down my tree, or I’ll call the police.”  Lydia said it with complete conviction, despite the fact that they both knew the tree officially stood on the opposite side of her property line. 

“Aaaaaahhhhh, I see,” the tree-pruner slowly chewed on her threat; he blew a pink gum bubble from his mouth with amusement. “So
you’re
the girl they warned me about.”  His bubble popped.

Lydia frowned.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means
you’re
the crazy girl.  The one your neighbors warned me about.”

The tree-pruner nodded in the direction across the property line to the brick Tudor house on the corner.  Lydia’s heart sank—hurt and humiliated.  She didn’t even know her neighbors, much less why they would say such nasty things about her.

 Suddenly, a dog barked through the fence.  It was Betsy, the neighbor’s yippy mutt, an anorexic mix between a Dalmatian and a Beagle that liked to urinate on the base of the oak’s trunk and bark at squirrels that retreated into its lofty branches for sanctuary.  One time, when Lydia was battling a migraine, she threw open her window and screamed at her neighbors to shut up their boney, bitchy fucking little mutt. 

Lydia’s face burned red.  Maybe
that
was the reason why her neighbors thought she was crazy. 
Oh dear
.  Lydia sank into her own skin and bit her lower lip as punishment.  What her neighbors didn’t realize was those curse words—boney, bitchy fucking little mutt—were the only words that Lydia had spoken to anyone all week.  And she remembered feeling humiliated for days afterwards.

“Well, I’m
not
crazy.  And I certainly don’t like my tree being cut down.”

“Your tree, huh?” the tree-pruner said.

“Yes,
my
tree.  I care about it more than my neighbors, so that makes it mine.”