God knows I did not know when the morning came.
The garage smelled like engine oil and fresh welds when I pushed through the door the next morning, my body still humming from the night before.
Dad was already under a lifted Ford, his legs sticking out like he was part machine himself, wrench clanking against metal.
I tossed my bag on the workbench, the weight of last night's secrets making my steps lighter, my skin tingling under my coveralls.
Ezra's c*m had dried on my thighs during the drive home, somehow I wished I'd not scrubbed away the only reminder that he was inside me in the shower, but the ache between my legs lingered, a delicious throb from how he'd stretched me, filled me, claimed me by the god he was.
"Morning, kiddo," Dad called, sliding out on the creeper, grease smudg
