4. Greedy Hearts & Greasier Hands

Cole hadn’t let you out of his arms all morning.

Every time you shifted, stretched, or even tried to slip on his shirt, he pulled you back in, his arms like steel bands around your waist, lips brushing your neck, murmuring, “Not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

But eventually, your stomach growled louder than your whimpers had, and he’d smirked, kissed your shoulder, and finally let you go — just long enough to grab breakfast from the diner in town.

You wore one of his flannels, nothing underneath. He watched you get dressed like it hurt him, jaw tight, eyes burning holes into your bare legs.

“I’m coming with you,” he said gruffly.

“Mm,” you teased, tugging on your sneakers, “scared someone might flirt with me?”

“I’ll break someone if they do.”

He wasn’t joking.

At the diner, you felt the shift the moment you walked in. A few heads turned — curious, too-long glances. And when one of the local boys leaned a little too far across the counter to hand you your coffee, Cole was there. Right behind you. A hand on your hip. Possessive. Solid.

“She’s taken,” he said low in the guy’s ear.

The poor kid practically tripped over himself backing away.

You smirked as you sipped your drink, but when you looked up at Cole… his eyes weren’t teasing.

They were dark.

“You think that’s funny?” he asked as you walked out into the sunlight.

“Maybe a little.”

He stepped in front of you. Cornered you gently against the side of his truck, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t share. Not a smile. Not a glance. Not you.”

His hand slid up your thigh under the flannel. “You forget who this pussy belongs to, baby?”

Your breath caught. “N-no—”

“Good.”

He kissed you hard. Right there. Out in the open. Tongue, teeth, everything. It wasn’t gentle. It was warning.

And you melted.

He growled into your mouth. “Get in the truck.”

You swallowed. “Cole—”

“Not going home.”

You blinked. “Then where—”

“The garage.”

—

You didn’t have time to process it.

One second you were walking through the side door of his mechanic’s garage, still warm from the morning sun — the next, he was lifting you onto the edge of the workbench, knocking over a wrench with a loud clang.

“God, look at you,” he rasped. “Sitting there in my shirt. No panties. Dripping.”

Your legs parted for him without a word. He stepped between them, hands sliding under the hem and up, spreading you wider.

“Cole, someone could—”

“No one’s coming. Just me.”

His mouth was on you before you could say another word. Tongue filthy, fingers quick. He was ravenous. Growling. Devouring you like you were dessert and he was starving.

You came with a sharp cry, back arching against the cool metal, and still — he didn’t stop.

“I told you I wasn’t done,” he muttered, lips slick with you.

Then he unzipped his jeans.

You barely had time to breathe before he was inside you — deep, fast, rough. The workbench creaked with every thrust, your hands gripping his shoulders, your gasps swallowed by his greedy mouth.

“You like when I lose control, huh?” he groaned. “Like when I can’t wait till we’re home?”

“Y-yes!”

“You gonna come again?” he asked, fucking you harder. “Right here in my garage? Where anyone could walk in?”

“Yes, yes—please—”

He slammed into you once more and you shattered, clenching around him so tight he cursed and followed, spilling inside you with a deep, desperate grunt.

You slumped against him, shaking, blissed out and breathless.

He held you there, kissed your forehead.

“Mine,” he whispered.

“Always,” you whispered back.

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