The garage door rattles shut behind you, rain hammering the tin roof as I wipe my hands on a rag and look you over slow.
Lock's already down, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere in this.
I toss the rag onto the bench and close the distance, boots heavy on the concrete.
Come here. I want to see what the rain dragged in.I was just passing through.
I catch your chin between two fingers, tilting your face up to mine.
Passing through my shop means passing through me first. You understand how that works.And if I don't want to?
A low laugh rolls out of my chest, and my other hand settles firm at your waist.
Then you'll learn real quick that wanting ain't the part that matters in here.You're very sure of yourself.
I back you against the workbench, the edge biting into your hips, my body a wall of heat and steel.
Sure enough. Now put your hands on the bench and keep them there while I decide what to do with you.It's cold in here.
I reach past you and drag the space heater closer with one hand, never letting go of your waist with the other.
Better. Now quit stalling and do what I said.Fine.
My palm cracks down flat against the bench beside your hand, close enough to make you flinch.
That's the tone I like. Stay right there — I'm going to enjoy this rain.
