Chapter 2: Wreck Me Slowly

Savannah had rules.

She made them. Broke them. Reinvented them every damn week depending on her mood or the man in front of her.

But that day, after Diesel leaned in and told her he only gets messy when the client wants him to, every rule she'd ever written burned to ash in the heat between her thighs.

It wasn't just that he was younger.

It was the way he looked at her. Like her body was something to grip. Like her mouth was something to silence. Like her curves were made for his grip and his hips.

That night, after everyone had left the dealership, Savannah stayed late—on purpose.

And so did he.

---

It Started with a Scratch

She caught him again in the back bay, finishing the last detail on the matte-black Porsche. The garage was half-lit, the shadows licking the walls like whispers.

"Still here?" she asked, her heels echoing as she stepped toward him.

Diesel turned slowly, shirt off this time, body glistening, muscles tight.

"Car wasn't done," he said.

Her eyes flicked over his inked chest, his abs, and finally... the heavy shape hanging down in his joggers.

It looked bigger without the shirt.

She swallowed. "And now?"

"Still not done."

She walked closer. "Or are you waiting for me to inspect your work?"

Diesel didn't smile. Just nodded once. "Thought you might want a closer look."

Savannah reached out—slow, deliberate—and ran one sharp manicured nail across the hood.

"Oops," she said. "Scratch."

Diesel's eyes locked on hers.

"You're trouble."

"And you're wet," she replied, glancing at the sheen of sweat on his chest.

"You want me to stop?"

"Not even a little."

---

Up Against the Car

He closed the space between them in a blink—towering over her, breath thick with tension.

Savannah leaned back against the car's fender, never breaking eye contact.

"You really think you can handle me?" she whispered.

Diesel stepped in, hips brushing hers. "No rules, right?"

She nodded slowly.

He brought one hand up and gently slid it behind her neck—firm but not too rough. His thumb dragged across her jaw.

"Say it," he said.

"No rules," she whispered.

In one move, he grabbed her waist and lifted her onto the hood of the Porsche like she weighed nothing. Her skirt rode up, her thighs spread just enough for his body to slot between them.

The air turned molten.

She felt it against her—thick, hard, heavy.

He didn't even have to grind. It was just there. Big. Pressing. Tempting.

"Holy shit," she muttered, eyes flicking down.

Diesel's lips curved just slightly. "Too much?"

Savannah reached down between them, palm grazing the print in his joggers. Her fingers curled lightly around the outline.

"God, no," she whispered. "I want to see it."

He didn't argue.

---

No Words, Just Mouth

She dropped to her knees right there on the garage floor—her skirt hiked up, her heels still on.

Diesel watched her with those wild, focused eyes. Not cocky. Just hungry.

Savannah pulled at the waistband of his joggers, eyes widening as it sprang free—long, thick, veined, and already pulsing.

"You're going to ruin me," she breathed.

"I plan to."

She wrapped her hand around him—barely able to circle the base—and leaned in.

The first stroke of her tongue made his head fall back.

She worked slow. Savoring. Wet strokes, sucking his tip, hands working the base. She let it drag across her tongue, cheeks hollowing around him as she moaned into it.

His hand tangled in her hair, not guiding—anchoring.

"You got a mouth built for this," he growled.

She pulled off, breathless. "Wait till you see my tits."

And just like that, she pressed them together, leaned forward, and wrapped them around his thick shaft. The weight of him between her cleavage made her shiver.

He watched—eyes dark, fists clenched—as she titfucked him slow, her spit and precum making everything slippery.

"Fuuuck," Diesel hissed.

Savannah looked up, lips parted, eyes wild. "Bet no one ever did this on your detail job."

He chuckled low, deep. "You're gonna make me finish if you keep going."

"Maybe I want to."

But Diesel gripped her by the arms, lifted her back onto her feet in one fast motion, and spun her to the hood.

Then he bent her over.

---

Dry Heat

Her cheek pressed to the warm metal, ass arched in the air.

He grabbed her hips, grinding into her from behind. Her skirt was up. Her panties were soaked. And Diesel was rock hard, dragging along her heat with just fabric between them.

He grunted as he rubbed against her, dry-humping slow and deep. She pushed back, hips rolling, the friction driving them both insane.

She felt him—every ridge, every inch, even through the clothes.

"Oh my God," she moaned. "You're gonna destroy me."

"I haven't even started," he growled in her ear.

His hand slid around her throat—not choking, just holding her there while he rutted against her like an animal. She gasped with every grind.

"Fuck me," she begged. "Please."

Diesel froze.

Then leaned close to her ear.

"Not tonight," he whispered. "You'll remember this more."

She let out a long, shaking breath.

His hand slid between her thighs, cupping her soaked panties.

"Dripping," he said. "You'll dream about me all night."

Then he stepped back, adjusted himself, and pulled his joggers up.

Savannah turned around, legs shaking.

"You serious?" she asked.

Diesel kissed her neck. "Dead serious. I want that pussy desperate."

She laughed—dark and breathless. "You're evil."

He kissed her cheek. "Nah. Just patient."