Page 119 of Veil of Secrets
“Yeah,” I say, tightening another bolt. “Me too.”
The garage feels alive, sun streaming through, tools clinking, engine taking shape. I think about the bar, the blood we spilled, the name we’re rebuilding. It’s not just steel and grease here—it’s the start of something, a spark we’re fanning into flame.
Elara leans over the workbench, her tank top clinging to her curves, sweat beading on her collarbone. The sight of her—strong, focused, grease-streaked—stirs something deep, a hunger that’s been simmering since we started wrenching on the engine. I set down my wrench, the metal clinking softly, and step closer, my eyes tracing the line of her neck, the way her chain catches the garage’s dim light.
“You’re staring,” she says, her voice low, teasing, without looking up. A smirk tugs at her lips, and her chain shifts, drawing my eye to the hollow of her throat.
“Can’t help it,” I murmur, my fingers brushing her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin under the grit. “You look too damn good like this.”
She straightens, turning to face me, her eyes dark and playful, a spark of mischief in them. “Like what? Covered in grease and sweat?”
“Exactly like that,” I say, stepping into her space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her. My hand slides to her waist, fingers curling into the denim of her jeans, pulling her gently against me. “Makes me want to get you even dirtier.”
Her laugh is soft, husky, sending a shiver down my spine. “Big talk, Nico,” she says, her hands finding my chest, fingers splaying over my shirt, smudging grease across the fabric. “You hungry for something other than this engine?”
“Starving,” I growl, my lips brushing her ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “And not just for food.”
Her breath hitches, and she tilts her head. “Same here,” she murmurs, her voice thick with want. “But I’m filthy. Need a shower to clean this grease off.”
“Me too,” I say, nipping her earlobe, my hands roaming to her hips, thumbs hooking into her belt loops. I tug her closer, our bodies flush, the workbench pressing into her back. The engine gleams beside us, tools scattered, but the world narrows to her—her scent, her heat, the way her lips part as she looks up at me, eyes heavy with suggestion.
“Then let’s clean up,” she challenges, her voice a sultry dare, one hand slipping lower, brushing my thigh through my jeans. The touch is electric, and I groan, my pulse quickening under her gaze. “Unless you’re too chicken to share the shower.”
“Chicken?” I tease, capturing her mouth in a kiss, slow and hungry, tongues brushing in a lazy dance. Her lips are soft but bold, tasting of salt and grease, and I savor her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding under her tank top, finding the warm curve of her skin. Her sigh vibrates against my lips, urging me on, and I pull back, grinning. “Only if you can’t handle me.”
“Fuck, you’re cocky,” she murmurs, her voice playful, hands sliding under my shirt, nails grazing my abs, sending sparks through my nerves. “Move it, Nico. Garage shower’s waiting.”
“Not even a little,” I say, nipping her lower lip, my hands guiding her toward the back of the garage. We weave past the bike frame, the tool racks, the air thick with oil and metal, until we reach the small bathroom tucked in the corner, its shower built for mechanics to scrub off a day’s work. Her laugh is sharp, delicious, and I feel her press closer, her fingers digging into my arm as we step inside, kicking the door shut.
“Shower’s cramped,” she says, flicking on the light, her chain swaying between her breasts. The room’s bare—tiles worn, a single bulb flickering, the shower stall just big enough for one, maybe two if you’re creative. I turn on the water, steam rising as it heats, the hiss filling the space.
“Good,” I say, tugging my shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. Her eyes drop, hungry, lingering on my chest, the grease smudges across my skin. “Like what you see?” I tease, stepping closer, watching her lick her lips.
“Get over here,” she demands, pulling her tank top off, revealing the smooth plane of her stomach, the thin lace of her bra. Our lips crash together, her taste sharp and warm, and she moans into the kiss, her hands tugging at my jeans. “You’re a mess, Nico. Let’s fix that.”
I don’t hesitate, shoving my jeans down, boxers following, my cock already hardening under her gaze. She strips too, jeans and panties hitting the tiles, her chain glinting against her bare skin. The steam curls around us, and I pull her into the shower, the hot water hitting us both, slicking her hair, running in rivulets down her curves. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” I say, my hands sliding over her hips, kissing the water from her shoulder, tasting clean skin and faint oil.
“Nico, don’t tease,” she pants, her voice raw, pressing against me, seeking friction. “I need you now.”
“Patience, baby,” I murmur against her neck, sucking gently, the water pounding around us. Her cry is soft, needy, and I feel her tremble, her hands gripping my shoulders, nails biting into muscle. My fingers trail down, finding her already wet, her heat searing through the water’s warmth. I stroke her slowly, teasing her entrance, and she bucks against my hand, a low moan tearing from her throat.
“Fuck, you’re ready,” I growl, slipping a finger inside her, then two, curling them to hit that spot that makes her shudder. “All this for me?”
“Always for you,” she breathes, her eyes locked on mine, dark and molten. She grabs my wrist, guiding me deeper, and I move faster, the water slicking our skin, steam clouding the air. “Oh, God, Nico, right there,” she gasps, her head falling back, chain glinting as her body arches.
I pump my fingers, watching her face—lips parted, eyes half-closed, moans spilling out, raw and unrestrained. The bathroom fades, the garage, the engine—there’s only Elara, unraveling under my touch. I kiss her again, swallowing her cries, my thumb circling her clit, pushing her closer to the edge.
“Not yet,” I say, pulling my hand free, ignoring her frustrated whimper. I lift her leg, hooking it over my hip. The water streams over us, and I guide myself to her entrance, teasing her with the tip. “I want to feel you first.”
“Fuck, yes,” she says, her voice a mix of command and plea, hands braced on my shoulders, chain swaying against her chest. I thrust into her in one deep stroke, her tight heat enveloping me, drawing a guttural groan from my chest. “Fuck, you feel so good,” I say, my voice rough, hands gripping her hips as I set a slow, deliberate pace, savoring every inch.
“Harder,” she begs, her voice raw, nails raking my back, leaving trails of fire. I obey, slamming into her, the water splashing around us, tiles echoing with the rhythm. Her cries grow louder, uninhibited, filling the small space, and I feel her tightening, her body tensing as she nears the edge. “Nico, I’m gonna come,” she gasps, her legs trembling, chain bouncing against her skin.
“Let go, baby,” I growl, one hand slipping between us, thumb rubbing her clit in tight circles. She shatters, her orgasm hitting hard, a scream tearing from her throat as her walls pulse around me, milking me. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her body shaking, and I keep moving, riding her through it, my own release building, hot and urgent.
“Fuck, Elara,” I groan, thrusting deeper, faster, the pleasure overwhelming. She pulls me down, kissing me fiercely, her tongue claiming mine, and I lose it, coming hard, spilling inside her with a low, shuddering moan. My hips jerk, waves of ecstasy crashing through me, and I hold her tight, our bodies locked together, breathless and spent under the water’s rush.
We stay like that, panting, foreheads pressed together, the shower streaming over us. The tiles are slick, steam thick, her chain cool against my chest, grounding me. I kiss her softly, tasting the water on her lips, her warmth beneath it.
