One
Greyson
I can hear the vehicle before it shows its presence. Shit, here in Spring, Florida, most everyone knows each other. The break I needed came at the right time, what with the way that vehicle is grinding. I just stepped out of my shop because the front-end loader I’m working on is giving me all sorts of issues. Work has been booming, and it doesn’t help that I’m getting called to go to job sites more and more each day.
“Fucking hell.” If I still smoked, I’d be lighting a cigarette. Instead, I’m rolling a damn toothpick around in my mouth trying to curb the habit. It’s been well over twelve months since I’ve last felt the rush of nicotine filling my lungs. Some days, I reach into my pocket looking for my smokes and a lighter, other days, I barely even remember smoking. That’s probably partly because I keep a toothpick handy and keep myself busy with my work.
The car turns the corner, and that’s when I see it—an SUV is towing a smaller what I would call Airstream, a travel trailer and iconic back in its time, if it’s even that. The noise it’s making is caused by a fender that’s dragging. I watch the woman inside the vehicle—long red hair hanging loosely around her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth showing she knows what’s going on with her Airstream, sunglasses stopping me from seeing her eyes.
I watch as she pulls into my parking lot, not moving from my position against the wall, one leg propped against it, my arms hanging loosely by my side. She parks her car in the parking lot, my gaze plastered on her the entire time. This woman, I can already see, she’s full of fire and ice. I watch her throwing the door open, walking around her rig.
“Son of a biscuit eater.” She fists her hair, pulling it over to the side. The way she carries herself, even pissed off, she holds herself together. She’s on the petite side, would barely meet my shoulders, an hourglass figure on full display in her white off-the-shoulder top, cut-off jean shorts that are molded to her heart-shaped ass, legs that are shapely down to her feet, which are encased in some kind of wedge-style shoe. I let her rant for a few more minutes, enjoying it the entire time. I bet she’d be fun in bed too. That thought causes my brain to start playing on ways I’d take her—from behind with her ass moving each time I thrust deep inside her, against the wall, her tits in my view, visualizing what they would look, feel, and taste like, or maybe I’d take her while she’s beneath me, my hands fisting her hair with my cock sliding in and out of her sweet cunt.
I make my way over to the feisty redhead, wanting to put a name to the woman who’s already got my cock in a semi. “Can I help you?”
“Oh my God! You scared the pee out of me. Well, not really, but yeah, okay. I’m going to shut up now.” This woman is prettier than I thought she’d be with her green eyes that have flecks of yellow surrounding them, high cheekbones, full lips that are a deep red and have my blood draining south.
A chuckle leaves my body at the way she rambles on. “Greyson Reid. It seems you stopped at the right place with your rig.” I hold my hand out, sure as fuck glad that I had the sense to clean them before escaping my shop.
“Serenity. I’d be grateful if you could help me out or point me to the nearest shop? Some jack-wagon decided to sideswipe me on the interstate. I didn’t want to stop in fear it was worse than it is. Which, heck, it’s pretty dang bad.” Serenity’s hand is in mine, my rough to her smooth, and there’s no way in hell I will let her go anyplace else.
Two
Serenity
Well, pour me a glass of tall, dark, and thirsty. Even my granny would say he’s a sweet glass of iced tea on a hot summer day. She wouldn’t be wrong either. He’s tall, so much taller than my five-foot-three-inch frame. The only reason I’m remotely not looking at his chest is because of the cork-style wedges I’m wearing, not that there was a reason to wear them while driving, but when your life is pretty much based around social media, it’s one of the things you become accustomed to. Greyson’s hair is long on the top, shaved close to his scalp on the sides, color like the dark sky at night when only a peep of the moon is out to give off that raven color of his. He’s got a five-o’clock shadow even though it’s midday, blue eyes with a hint of gray fanned by long minky eyelashes I’d give my right arm for. Some men just have all the luck. My eyes travel to his mouth. A small smirk plays on his lips, and I wonder what he’d look like if he licked his lips, if he’d feel the same heat and desire running right alongside mine. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, one that is completely tattooed in a sleeve-like fashion, and Jesus, don’t even get me started on his big hands. One is still currently ensconcing mine, and my thighs clench on the thought of what those hands can do to a body.