Chapter One: The Curve That Caught Him
The first time Nick saw her, she wasn't even trying.
She walked into his custom shop on a late Thursday afternoon like she owned every square inch of air around her. Curvy in all the right places, she wore a black pencil skirt that hugged her ass like sin had its own tailor, and a soft white blouse that dipped just low enough to make you curious but not desperate. Her heels clicked across the polished concrete floor, each step calculated, confident, and silent in its promise: You'll remember me.
Nick, who'd been bent under the hood of a matte-black Charger, wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and looked up. His gaze landed on her legs first—tanned, toned, and crossing one in front of the other like they were practicing seduction with every movement.
"You Nick?" she asked, voice low and smooth. Like warm honey.
"Yeah," he said, standing upright and grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. "Depends who's asking."
She smirked. "Freya."
She didn't offer a last name, and he didn't need one. Some names hit like thunder. Hers crackled in the silence, wrapped in confidence and a faint, expensive perfume.
"My car needs something… extra," she said. "And I heard you're the guy who knows how to handle custom."
Nick tossed the rag onto a workbench. "I'm the guy who makes machines obey. What are we working with?"
"A '67 Mustang Fastback. Cherry red. Original curves. Needs… a tighter grip."
She let the sentence hang, and Nick knew it was intentional. There was a glint in her eyes, not just flirtation—but the kind of testing look that said Are you man enough to play in my lane?
"You want it faster, louder, or just more dangerous?"
Freya smiled. "Why not all three?"
---
The Mustang was a beast. Beautiful, yes. But it had attitude—like its owner. The next day, she brought it in wearing aviator sunglasses and a crimson dress that stopped mid-thigh, making every male in the shop find a new reason to be in the garage.
Nick didn't say anything when he walked up to her, just ran a hand along the hood of the car and met her gaze.
"I can tell she's been driven hard," he said.
Freya didn't blink. "She likes it rough."
His mouth twitched. "That so?"
"Think you can handle it?" she asked, her hand grazing the car just beside his.
Nick leaned in slightly. "I don't just handle. I take control."
Her smile returned, slow and dangerous. "Then take it."
---
It started there—banter dipped in desire, glances that felt like hands. Each visit stretched longer. Freya would show up in her designer heels, sit on the bench near the garage while Nick worked, and talk with that voice that could curl heat into a man's spine. She'd cross her legs deliberately, tilt her head when he said something bold, and laugh like every syllable was a secret.
One afternoon, while checking her car's undercarriage, Nick caught her watching him. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip just before she took a sip from her water bottle.
He slid out from under the car, sweat clinging to his shirt, muscles tight under grease and heat.
"You always look at mechanics like that?" he asked, cocky and half-playful.
"Only the ones who could make a woman purr louder than her engine," she replied.
Nick didn't miss a beat. "You purr?"
She looked him straight in the eye. "If the touch is right."
---
Days turned into weeks. Her car didn't really need that much work. But she kept coming back.
One late Friday, after the shop had emptied, Freya returned in a black leather jacket, no bra, and jeans molded to her hips. She brought wine, saying it was a "thank you" for a job well done.
Nick wiped his hands and poured two glasses.
They sat on a stool and tool chest, shoulder to shoulder, wine between them and tension thick as oil.
She leaned in close. "You ever think about it?" she whispered.
"About what?"
"Me. You. Somewhere behind this garage door."
He held her gaze. "You've been in my head since day one."
"Then why haven't you done something about it?"
"Because I know the difference between a quick thrill and something worth taking slow."
Freya smirked, her fingers brushing the edge of his thigh. "Maybe I don't want slow."
Nick grabbed her wrist gently but firmly, his thumb tracing her pulse.
"Maybe I like watching you want it."
She inhaled sharply, her body leaning toward his, inches from him, lips parted.
"You play dirty," she murmured.
"Only with women built for it."
Freya's breath caught.
---
They didn't kiss that night. They didn't even touch beyond that one, charged wrist-hold. But when she left, her perfume lingered on his skin, and her voice echoed in his head. She walked out into the night, hips swaying like temptation in motion.
Nick stood there long after she left, pulse high, palms clenched, wanting more.
And she knew it.
Because Freya wasn't a woman who needed to beg.
She was built for sin—and Nick was already falling.