Parking my Jeep, I get out and clomp toward the open bay door in my heels that are starting to hurt my feet after standing in them for hours. I’m used to the pain; it’s a small price to pay for fashion.
I hear a rock song first before the clang of metal tools. The usual scent of gasoline and oil hang heavily in the air. Strangely enough, I love the combination, probably because they remind me of him, and of afternoons hanging out around the shop watching him work while I talk his ear off about my day. He always pretends he barely hears me, and hardly ever says a word.
The shop is closed so he’s not expecting anyone tonight, especially me. When I step inside the open garage door, I take a few moments to drink in the half of his thick, muscular body sticking out from underneath the engine of the cherry red classic car he’s working on. I’ve always wanted to tug down the zipper of his navy coveralls to find out what he’s wearing underneath. Does he go commando? I like to think so in my fantasies.
“Guess this car is more important than my party!” I finally remark, loud enough to be heard over the music.
A tool clanks against the concrete and then Winston is rolling out from underneath the hood on his back, a swipe of grease over his brow and covering his big hands.
“Thought the party was for your friends,” he remarks, using as few words as possible. He stands up and heads over to turn down the volume on his stereo without even glancing in my direction.
“And you’re not my friend?” I ask.
“I’m your brother,” he remarks, grabbing up a black cloth to wipe his hands on it while avoiding looking at me.
“Stepbrother,” I correct, for the millionth time. “And why can’t you be both?”
He doesn’t answer, not that I expected he would. Getting words out of him is like pulling teeth from a giant, grumpy grizzly bear.
“I thought you would at least come by the house to say goodbye.”
“Bye,” he grits out, as if the one single word is sufficient.
“Can I get a hug too, or is that too much to ask?”
Finally, Winston lifts his dark chocolate eyes that are the same color of his hair to me. They quickly sweep over my white spaghetti strap dress before they lower to the towel he’s still clutching in his fists.
“Can’t. I’ll ruin your dress,” he remarks.
Ruin my…? Is he serious? God, he makes me so furious! Since I won’t even be here but a few more hours, I gather my nerve and march right up to him. When only inches separate us, I do something I know is completely insane, but other than my lack of big boobs, I’m not self-conscious about my body. How could I be when I want to show it to the world as a model?
Reaching behind my back, I unzip my dress, then let it drop to the dirty garage floor, puddling around my heels.
“There. Problem solved. Now you can touch me and not worry about getting my dress dirty.”
Winston stares silently at me standing there before him in nothing but my white thong for so long, I start to grow insecure, especially when the colorful pictures on the wall behind him catch my eye—scantily dressed, gorgeous women, some topless as they lay provocatively across sports cars and straddle Harley motorcycles. My cheeks redden because they are some of the most sexually explicit images I’ve ever seen. And, they serve as another reminder that Winston is turned on by curvy, big-breasted women, not scrawny, eighteen-year-old girls like me who barely fill a B cup.
I’m about to slap my arm over my chest when Winston finally moves. His arms shoot out, grabbing me around the waist to spin me around and press my back against the cool metal work bench. I’m five-ten flat-footed, which means I’m almost as tall as him in my heels. The brush of his scruffy, unshaven jaw against my smooth cheek and my bare breasts pressed to his solid, muscular chest make my lower belly clench harder than usual whenever I’m around him. Which makes sense because I’ve never been this naked in front of him before.
Since his arms are still holding me to him, I throw mine around his neck.
“There. Was that so hard?” I ask.
“Have you lost your fucking mind? There are security cameras in here recording everything!” he grits out into my ear. “And the garage door is wide open!”
“I…I just wanted a hug goodbye,” I say sweetly as I inhale his usual salty scent from his neck—sweat from long hours of manual labor mixed with the woodsy oak from his body wash or aftershave. “I’ll miss you, even if you won’t miss me.”
“Who said I wouldn’t miss you?” he asks gruffly against my ear as his palms give my hips a harsh squeeze.
“I just assumed…” I trail off. So…he will miss me? And am I imagining it or are the pads of his thumbs easing underneath the front elastic waistband of my panties?
“You’re too young,” he grumbles.
“W-what?” I ask, because I’ve forgotten what we were talking about with his big body pinning mine to the table and his thumbs moving in circles that are heading lower.
“You’re too young for this shit.” Wait. Does he mean I’m too young for the modeling competition, or for something else entirely? “I don’t know what Martin’s thinking,” he mutters, making it clear he meant the competition.
“I’ve graduated and am legally an adult now,” I point out since he seems to think I’m still the same thirteen-year-old child I was when our parents first got married.
“You’ll get eaten alive,” Winston growls, his hard chest moving up and down faster and faster against my breasts with each of his heavy breaths, making my nipples harden. “Every man you meet will be thinking about how he can get to the sweet spot right between your long, gorgeous legs.”
His thumbs have definitely moved lower, so low he must be well aware of the fact I get Brazilian waxes.
Wait a second. Did he say he thinks my legs are gorgeous? I was so distracted by his damn thumbs. God, I wish he would just touch me lower. But I know he won’t. I’ve tried to seduce him for years, and this, today, having his thumbs in my panties, is more than I ever expected to receive. It’s still not enough, which is why I have no plans to stop anytime soon.
“Why do you care if I get eaten alive?” I ask. I ease my arms down from Winston’s neck until my fingers reach the front zipper of his coveralls. Slowly, I start pulling it down, hoping to distract him long enough to find out what’s underneath.
His hands freeze on my hips before he answers, “Because I’m your brother.”
“Stepbrother,” I correct him yet again while the zipper moves lower and lower, revealing a dusting of black chest hair. Just a little further and I get to the indentation of his abs, telling me he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. Now, let’s find out if he’s wearing pants…
“What are you…” Winston starts to say before he takes half a step back and looks down. “Fuck!”
At first, I think he’s pissed at me for undressing him, but then I follow his line of sight to my hip bones that are covered with black smudges from his hands. I don’t mind. In fact, I love seeing the evidence of every spot where he’s finally touched me.
“Hold on. I’ll clean you up,” he says before he removes his hands from me and takes a step back. He stops and looks down before cursing again when he realizes he’s stomped on my white dress that’s no longer very white.