Footsie fixin'

Jasmyne slammed the hood open like it owed her money. "There's something growling down there," she said, leaning in so Mr. Mechanic got a solid eyeful of her low-cut blouse and the faint pink lace poking above her jeans. He wiped grease on his rag, took one look, and grinned. "Pop the release," he told her. While she bent over, skirt riding dangerously high, his gaze followed the curve of her ass, tight and round. He slid underneath, pretending to inspect the engine, but spent most of his time watching her legs flex. "Thing's hotter than it should be," he muttered, tongue sliding across his lip. With a clink and a tug he pulled free the dipstick, thick fluid dripping over his knuckles. Jasmyne watched him, skirt hiked, breathing quick. Mr. Mechanic stood, wiped his hands on her thigh "accidently," and let his fingers linger just long enough for her to press back. She bit her lip, parted her legs a little more. He muttered something dirty about tightening bolts, slid two fingers between her thighs, and started working her with slow, deliberate twists of the wrist, smiling at every twitch and sigh that escaped her mouth. By the time the "repair" finished, Jasmyne's panties were soaked, the engine was still growling, and neither of them gave a damn about the invoice.