Knocked up by the Mechanic
Pool today, bitch. It’s going to hit 108.
A text from Gianna
Hey Harley, it's Alex, we’re going to spend the day at the CC pool and you should totally join us!
A text from Alexandra.
I replied to them both and shot off a quick email to my dad and brother telling them everything was fine. I wrote mostly to prove to my father that I was capable of manning the house alone, and that I could be trusted with just as much as Stefano.
Before I jogged up the stairs to shower, I peeked out the window and spotted Wyatt’s bike parked in front of the garage. He must have got the air fixed and was working inside. I bit my lip when I remembered my fantasy with the vibrator from the night before. Wyatt might have been super sexy but he was totally off limits. Maybe I needed to meet a guy at the Country Club to make out with and blow off some steam. If I ever got involved with Wyatt Dunne, my father would kill me. No, first he’d kill Wyatt and then he’d disown me.
Yet, once I was under the hot stream of the shower, it was like my body was possessed with the idea of the mechanic. My nipples hardened and I began pinching them making myself wet again. When I reached between my legs, I slipped two fingers inside myself. I felt cock hungry like Gianna as I circled my clit. Gianna hooked up nearly every day like she was addicted to sex. I rubbed my clit hard as I imagined Wyatt’s mouth latching onto me there, his wicked tongue taking me high and making me climax in his mouth. The experience was heightened knowing he was just a few seconds away; it was the idea he could walk in on me that threw me over the edge. I came so hard, slipping my two fingers from my clit back inside myself as my body rocked in one of the strongest orgasms of my life.
When I toweled off in front of the foggy mirror, I noticed my face was flushed and my nipples looked raw and sore from my own pinching and tugging. From my swimsuit drawer in my walk in, I took out half a dozen bikinis to try on. I decided on a sleek black one that had more coverage than Gianna’s but still made me feel elegant and sexy.
I threw a maxi dress over my swimsuit and grabbed my oversized straw tote, my Givenchy sunnies, and threw my feet into some Tory Burch flip flops. A book and sunscreen went in next. I’d forgo drinks and snacks because Daddy kept a running tab at the club and I loved to get cocktails there and watch the sunset with the girls.
I grabbed my phone from the island downstairs to text Wyatt to pull my car around. I always asked him to do it if he was here when I was leaving, but after our interaction yesterday, (and my own fantasies), I hesitated.
Hi Wyatt
I finally decided on.
What’s up Brooks?
Maybe he thought I was Stefano
It’s Harley
Yep. Need the birdcage?
He called my Maserati a birdcage. I had no idea why.
Yes, please.
Done.
I ran to the kitchen like a madwoman, my heart chugging in my chest. I tore bread, mustard and cold-cuts from the fridge.
“Ms. Brooks, can I help you with something?” the cleaning woman said.
“Making a sandwich. I’m good. You should take the day off!” I said, sounding hysterical. I was hell bent on proving I wasn’t a terrible rich bitch, and more, was independent and could take care of myself.
“Ms. Brooks, I can make you a sandwich. Your father already paid me, so I’m not leaving until I’ve finished the work he’s asked me to do.”
“The lunch is for Wyatt. I’m in charge while my dad’s away, so leave early if you want to. It’s too hot to work all day. Help yourself to the pool and I’ll be at the club if you need me.”
I bounced away cheerily while Ms. Patterson eyed me warily and put away the sandwich fixings.
My car was in the driveway, clean, bright, and shiny, but Wyatt was nowhere in sight so I knocked politely on the workshop door of the garage.
He opened the door looking devastatingly handsome and a little bit grouchy.
“What’s up?” I asked him. I handed him the plate with the stacked sandwich I’d made. He cocked an eyebrow and sniffed it suspiciously.
“Turkey Club. Do you like turkey?” I smiled and pushed my sunnies up on my head. I reached in my oversized bag and pulled out a chilled Perrier, a SanPellegrino, and two beers. “Thought you might get thirsty; it’s hot,” I told him.
“It is hot,” he said, taking me in from my feet on up to my eyes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And I am thirsty,” he finished. “To what do I owe this personal curbside delivery, Harley?”