Page 25 of Challenge Me

“Look.”

I looked.

The engine bay yawned before me, hot and dark, a tangle of metal, wires, pipes, belts, and hoses I had previously considered Al’s domain. Steam thinned into the air. Heat curled off the engine and struck my chest through my shirt.

I could smell oil.

Gasoline.

Burned rubber.

Him.

“You see this?” Ghost’s fingers traveled up my scalp and tightened, forcing my attention lower. “This is where the magic happens.”

“Cars are not magic,” I said, though my voice had lost some of its bite.

His mouth brushed my ear. “Darlin’, I am standing behind you in broad daylight with my hand in your hair while my engine smokes on a hill. You want to try that again?”

I closed my mouth. He gave a low, satisfied laugh.

“This,” he said, pointing toward a large, flat dish with a filter around the outside edge, “is the air filter. This is where I breathe. Air scrubs through here before it mixes with fuel, before the spark wakes it up, before anything inside me burns hot enough to move.”

“I know what an air filter is.”

“No,” he murmured. “You know the words. I want you to learn me.” His hips pressed against mine, and my attention scattered immediately. My hand tightened against the edge of the car.

Ghost pushed my head lower, closer to the dish. “I will test you,” he said, voice low against my ear, “on every single part of me.”

His grip on my hair tightened, and I stared at the filter. There was a small, dark hole in the top, where the pan was fastened down with a wingnut.

“I want your tongue on my air filter.”

I went still.

Absolutely still.

For one terrible second, I wondered whether he had actually said it, or whether my mind had finally given up beneath the combined pressure of smoke, fumes, and the most deranged automotive lesson in history.

Then his other hand slid beneath my shirt. His palm spread over my stomach, warm and possessive.

I braced one hand against the hood, my fingers slipping slightly over a smear of oil. I could feel the heat rising off the engine and his cock pressed against my back; a reward, no doubt. If I cooperated.

I should have laughed.

I should have stepped back.

I should have reminded him, sharply, that I did not kneel for vehicles and absolutely did not put my mouth on engine parts like some lovesick mechanic in a fever dream.

Instead, I heard myself say, “You cannot be serious.”

“I am dead serious.”

“It is filthy.”

“Yes.”

“It’s an air filter.”