Page 13 of Egg Me On
I was being an idiot. His food truck was in the parking lot at my work. I could stop by and leave him a coffee and collect my free breakfast burritos every day.
But there’d be no more of his chest pressed against my back, arms wrapped around my waist as we leaned into curves together. No more of his laugh vibrating against me when I accelerated too quickly. No more of his scent—citrus and coffee—surrounding me each morning.
He was still talking, and I had no idea what he was saying. Something about my brilliant mechanical skills.
This was getting ridiculous. I'd never been attracted to a man before. Never looked at another guy and thought about getting him naked, about touching him, tasting him. But with Aiden? Christ. I couldn't even look at his fucking lips without imagining them wrapped around my cock. Couldn't watch him reach for something without wanting those elegant fingers on me as I drove into his tight hole. Couldn't hear his laugh without wanting to discover what other sounds I could draw from his throat.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I'd dated women my entire life. Had even come close to something serious once or twice. I wouldn't call myself strictly heterosexual. I'd noticed attractive men before in an abstract way. But this? This constant distraction, this need that gnawed at my insides? This was new territory, and I had no goddamn map.
Aiden eventually ran out of steam and gave me one last hug before rushing to help a customer, and I walked in a daze back to the garage, not entirely sure what had happened.
The transmission on the GSX-R750 sat in pieces across my workbench, a mess of gears and springs that should have been therapeutic to rebuild. Usually, losing myself in the precise mechanics of motorcycle repair cleared my head, silenced the noise.
I picked up my wrench, inspecting the transmission casing that I had been working on all morning with forced concentration. The shift drum needed to be properly aligned with the fork before reassembly. Simple procedure. Mindless. Just like I needed right now.
Three minutes later, I realized I'd installed it backward.
"Son of a bitch!" I tugged it back out, fumbling it and dropping the part onto the bench where it scattered smaller components across the battered surface. What the hell was wrong with me?
I braced both hands against the workbench, head hanging between my shoulders, and took a deep breath. The memory of Aiden pressed against me on the motorcycle flooded back—the way his thighs had bracketed mine, how perfectly his body molded to my back, the heat of him seeping through my clothes. The way he'd trusted me instantly, moving with me like we'd been riding together for years instead of minutes.
I shouldn’t miss it, though. It was a hassle. An inconvenience.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, probably more social media notifications. Women I didn't know leaving thirsty comments. Hollow attention from strangers who, for some bizarre reason, found my boring motorcycle mechanic lectures sexy.
Okay, fine, it was probably because I’d started doing them shirtless. Bought some sexy lighting, and occasionally oiled my chest. It was embarrassing, but the rush of anonymous praise and attention was addictive, and for a while, I’d chased that.
But none of it compared to the electric jolt I felt when Aiden's fingers accidentally brushed mine. None of it made my heart slam against my ribs like the sight of his smile. And none of it scared me half as much as the realization that I wanted him in ways I'd never wanted anyone before.
"Transmission giving you trouble?"
I jerked upright at Silas's voice. He stood in the doorway of my bay, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with that irritating knowing look he'd perfected over the years.
"It's fine," I muttered, turning back to the scattered parts.
"Doesn't look fine," Silas replied, stepping into my space.
I grunted, picking up a bearing and inspecting it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "Need something?"
"Staff meeting in ten. Conference room." He leaned against my workbench, entirely too comfortable in my territory. "Aiden's joining us to discuss the weekend campout."
My fingers tightened around the bearing until my knuckles turned white. Just the mention of his name and my body betrayed me.
"The food truck guy?" It took all of my focus to force my voice to sound neutral. The effort made my jaw ache.
"He's part of the Collective now," Silas said simply. "And because Marcus wants him to cater breakfast at the campout."
I could picture it too easily—Aiden around the campfire, golden in the firelight, laughing with the others while I sat apart, wanting him and not knowing what the fuck to do about it.
"Whatever," I said, reaching for a clean rag to wipe the grease from my hands. The motion was jerky, aggressive, betraying my irritation.
Silas watched me for a long moment. "You know, it's okay to admit when you give a shit about someone."
I shot him a glare that would have sent anyone else running. Silas just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"Conference room. Ten minutes," he repeated, then turned to leave. He paused at the doorway. "And Cash? Maybe try not looking at him like you want to eat him alive. It's making the rest of us uncomfortable."
