My Father's Best Friend Fixed My Roof, Then Never Left My Kitchen novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: Stockroom

The back door of Drabik Hardware was unlocked, and the stockroom behind it was dark except for one shop light.

I stepped in out of the cold with my braid down my back and my heart going.

Milan stood by a long workbench with the light over his shoulders.

He'd taken off his apron, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and I could see the pale scars on his forearms.

The room smelled of machine oil and cut keys.

Behind him, bins of screws and washers climbed the wall to the ceiling.

"Lock it," he said.

I turned the bolt.

"Come here."

I crossed the concrete floor in my boots, and every step echoed.

He didn't touch me.

He looked me over from my boots to my braid, slow, and I stood there and let him.

"You've been thinking about this all day," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Tell me what you thought."

"That you'd say what you're going to do to me."

"Good," Milan said. "Turn around. Put both hands on the edge of the bench."

I turned.

The workbench was scarred oak, chewed with forty years of saw cuts, and it was cold under my palms.

I leaned and gripped the edge.

He came up behind me.

I felt the heat of his chest before I felt him.

Then his hand slid into my braid and wrapped it once around his fist.

He tugged, just enough to tip my head back.

His mouth came down beside my ear.

"I'm going to take your jeans down," he said. "Then I'm putting my fingers in you, to find out how wet you've been all day."

His fist tightened in my hair.

"Then I'm going to fuck you over this bench."

My knees went loose.

"Hold the edge. Don't let go."

"I won't," I said.

"Look at me over your shoulder."

I turned my head and found his eyes, a few inches away, blue and steady.

"I'm going to go slow," he said. "And then I'm not."

He undid my jeans with his free hand, and the zipper was loud in that room.

He pushed my jeans and my underwear down together, to my knees.

The cold air hit my skin, and then his hand came back, warm and flat on my ass.

He squeezed once, hard.

"Beautiful," he said, low.

I hadn't known I could blush from behind.

His fingers slid between my legs from the back, and he found me.

"There it is," he said. "You're soaked. Did you do this to yourself all day, thinking about me?"

"You know I did," I said.

"Say it."

"I thought about you all day. I was so wet this morning on the porch that I couldn't hold my coffee."

He made a rough sound against my ear.

"Good girl."

He pushed two fingers in, slow, and my hips pushed back on their own.

I felt my grip slide on the oak, and I tightened it.

He crooked his fingers and drew them out and pushed in again, deeper, and the heel of his hand pressed against my clit.

"Look at me," he said.

I was looking.

I couldn't stop.

I watched him watch me, and my mouth fell open.

"That's it," Milan said. "Open for me. Let me hear you."

I let him hear me.

It came out in short, high sounds, and I didn't care that it echoed off the concrete.

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