A Sunday Shifted into Overdrive

What kind of Sunday is this turning out to be? First, I nick my finger while chopping vegetables, then I burn my toast to a crisp, and now I’m hit with this restless urge to get out and do something wild – like take my motorcycle for a long, reckless ride. Just thinking about the wind whipping past me gets my adrenaline pumping. If only my buddy Jake were around, but he had to ditch me this weekend to visit his family out of state. Saturday, Sunday – two days with no one to share the thrill.

This is shaping up to be a damn dull weekend.

While I’m brooding over my coffee, poking at it with a spoon, the doorbell rings. I’m still in my boxers, so I throw on a hoodie and shuffle to the door, irritated. I yank it open and freeze. Standing there is Sarah Miller, the new intern I’ve been mentoring at the garage for the past month. She’s 24, quiet but eager to learn, with this sharp curiosity that’s hard to miss.

I’d caught myself eyeing her a few times at work – the way she moves around the bikes, her slim frame and that confident way she carries herself. Nice curves, too, the kind you can’t help but notice. Her voice snaps me out of it: “Sorry to bother you, Tom, but I’m stuck on that carburetor issue you asked me to figure out. Could you walk me through it real quick? It won’t take long!” She stops mid-sentence, her eyes dropping to the floor as she mumbles, “Oh, crap, I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”

It takes me a second to realize why she’s flustered. It’s noon, and here I am in a hoodie and nothing else, looking like I just rolled out of bed. I laugh it off. “Nah, you’re fine – I’m solo this weekend and just got out of the shower. Come on in!” She hesitates, so I grab her wrist and tug her inside, shutting the door behind her.

As she shrugs off her jacket, I let out a low whistle. She’s not in her usual greasy coveralls – she’s rocking tight jeans and a thin tank top that hugs her body, showing off every line. No bra, either, which is impossible not to notice. It’s a look that’d get her sent home from the shop, but here? It’s waking me up in ways I didn’t expect. My imagination kicks into gear, and under the hoodie, I’m starting to feel the evidence. Before I can adjust, she turns around, catches the bulge, and swallows hard. “Uh, maybe I should go – you seem… off today.”

I’m feeling the opposite of off, but I get her drift. “Relax,” I say, grinning. “I didn’t know it’d be you at the door, and you’re not exactly dressed like a nun either. Throw your jacket back on if it bothers you – I’ll calm down in a sec.” She pauses, then smirks and heads into the living room, tossing back, “Pfft, guys are all the same – one look at a girl, and your brain shuts off, blood rushing south.”

She’s not wrong, and it pisses me off just enough to want to mess with her. I follow her in, plop down across from her, and decide to see who cracks first. She pulls out her notebook, all business, and we start hashing out the carburetor problem. But I catch her sneaking glances at my lap, where the hoodie’s doing a lousy job of hiding things. I pretend not to notice. Mid-explanation, I shift, and the hoodie rides up – just enough for her to get a clear view of what’s going on underneath.

Her eyes dart between her notes and my legs, and I can tell it’s getting to her. Her cheeks flush, and through that tank top, I see her nipples perk up, pressing against the fabric. Game on. I lean back, letting the hoodie fall open more, giving her a full show. She’s breathing faster now, swallowing hard, and I know she’s hooked. All I need is for her to admit it. My mind races – does she like it rough? Is she already soaked just thinking about it?

Her voice cuts through my thoughts. “I should probably head out,” she says, scrambling to gather her stuff. Her hands are shaky, and her eyes keep flicking to my lap. She’s turned on but won’t say it. Time to roll the dice – either I’m alone in a minute, or I’m in for a hell of a ride.

I stand, shrug off the hoodie entirely, and step toward her. My shorts hit the floor next, and I’m standing there, rock hard. She’s on the couch, eye level with me. I grab her shoulders, pull her close, and before she can protest, I guide her hand to my junk. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away – her fingers wrap around me, tentative at first, then firmer. She’s in.

I ease back, sit next to her, and say, “Lose the top.” Like she’s in a daze, she peels off the tank, revealing a pair of perfect, perky tits with stiff nipples begging for attention. My pulse jacks up imagining what’s next. Jeans off, she’s bare on my coffee table, legs spread, giving me a front-row seat. She’s trimmed neat, glistening already, and I’m losing it. I slide between her thighs, my mouth inches from her, breathing in that sharp, needy scent. My tongue flicks out, grazing her clit – she jolts, a soft moan slipping out.

I dive in, licking hard, sucking, teasing until she’s squirming, gasping, “Oh God, keep going – don’t stop!” Her hips buck, and I’m all in, tongue driving deep while my fingers work her clit. She’s dripping, trembling, and I know she’s primed. I pull back, position myself on the table, and yank her toward me. My tip brushes her, and she groans, “Yes, more!” I grip her hips and thrust – one hard push, and I’m buried deep.