Internal Combustion

India Masters

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Chelsea doesn’t want a man—problematic, because she can’t stop imagining her boss naked. Finn is definitely off-limits. Chelsea loves her job at his garage way too much to let a little thing like lust ruin her future. Too...
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Chelsea doesn’t want a man—problematic, because she can’t stop imagining her boss naked. Finn is definitely off-limits. Chelsea loves her job at his garage way too much to let a little thing like lust ruin her future.

Too bad Finn isn’t on the same page. He can’t seem to think of anything but bending Chelsea over every flat surface in the garage and teasing her until she’ll agree to every fantasy he’s got.

Talking Chelsea into bed—and into some kinky BDSM fun—isn’t nearly as hard as Finn thought it would be. The sex is scorching and he can’t get over how their pillow talk revolves around their mutual love of engines, fast cars and high-octane fun.

Chelsea may let Finn tie her up, but she’s not about to let him tie her down. The mere mention of a relationship has her pumping the brakes and looking for an exit. Finn’s willing to give her the time and space she needs—he knows his woman better than she thinks, and he’s willing to ignore every possessive instinct he has to prove it.

  • Note:Internal Combustion was previously released by another publisher. It's been substantially revised and edited in this version.
Finn Morgan leaned back against the bar, a longneck bottle of beer gripped loosely between his fingers. Another day at the shop finally over, he’d gone home for a quick shower and headed out to Cochran’s for a burger and a couple of beers.

Feminine laughter caught his attention, and he looked up. Her back was to him, long, honey-blonde hair swirling to her waist, but he’d know that laugh anywhere. Chelsea Crane, the new mechanic his partner Bo had hired while Finn had been on vacation. He’d been tied in knots all week, practically salivating to see the tiny mechanic sans coveralls. Now he’d finally have his chance. She turned, squinting into the dimness of the bar to look for a table. Her gaze lit on him, passed on, then quickly returned. Her eyes widened—did she just shiver at the sight of him? She turned to her companion, a woman he didn’t recognize, and they headed for a booth next to an open pool table.

They slid into the booth opposite one another, and the two conferred for a few minutes. Chelsea nodded, eased out of her seat, pausing to lay a few quarters on the edge of the pool table, and headed to the bar.

“Mr. Morgan,” she said, passing by him.

“Chelsea.” He raised the bottle to his mouth and took a deep drink. “And the name’s Finn.”

Wide green eyes perused him for a heartbeat, and then she nodded. “Right.”

The bartender appeared.

“Evening. Er, a pitcher of beer and two glasses. And we’ll have a couple of burgers, medium, one onion ring and one fry.”

She paid for the order, grabbed her pitcher and glasses, and headed back to the table without a word or a look in Finn’s direction. A less secure man might have thought she was uninterested, but he didn’t miss the flush of her cheeks or the studious manner in which she scrutinized the floor beneath her booted feet. Most especially, he didn’t miss the way her nipples hardened when she passed him by.

Finn watched as she set the pitcher on the table and filled the glasses. She removed her denim jacket and tossed it on the bench seat. Finn nearly choked on a swig of beer. Her little cotton shirt was black with multicolored roses. Sleeveless, it tied just beneath her breasts, then fell open to reveal a wealth of smooth, golden skin and a very flat, toned belly. The low-rise jeans, old and worn, would no doubt be soft to the touch, but then so would all that skin. His hands itched to confirm that assumption.

She went to the pool table to set up for a game. Nimble fingers racked the balls. She and her companion flipped a coin to see who would break, and he watched with avid interest as Chelsea leaned over to sight her shot, drew back her cue, and gave her friend a smug smile as the balls scattered and three disappeared into the pockets. To his disappointment, the little shirt hadn’t gaped open to allow him the sight of what would likely be a pair of luscious breasts. He did get a glimpse of a lacy, white bra cupping those marvelous breasts, and his cock sure stood up and took notice. That bastard didn’t seem a bit concerned that the woman was his employee. All that particular organ had cared about for the last week or so was the sight of Chelsea’s tight little ass bent over the raised hood of a car.
* * * *

“That’s your boss?” Amy Riley whispered as she got up to take her turn. “God, he’s totally hot.”

Chelsea sighed and took a sip of beer. “Tell me about it. I do love a man with long hair. Something to grab on to while he’s kissing you into a big puddle of ‘fuck me,’ ya know? But guys like that? They don’t go for women like me. They don’t like a chick who knows more about cars than they do. Intimidates them.”

“Uh-huh. Honestly, Chels, I don’t know why you say shit like that. You’re gorgeous. Any guy would give his eye teeth to be with someone like you.” Amy set up her shot, but her gaze slid past the ball to the tall, dark-haired man in question. “And by the way, he’s practically eating you up with those gorgeous eyes.”

Chelsea snorted derisively. “I say things like that because it’s true. Remind me to tell you about the time some coworkers and I went for training in Indianapolis. I was getting a lot of attention from this guy I worked with. Turns out he had a bet with some of the other guys. A case of beer if he got me in bed. And as for Finn Morgan, the man doesn’t even know I’m alive. He’s barely spoken two words to me since he got back from his vacation and found out Bo hired me. I don’t think he likes the idea of a woman mechanic, but that’s tough shit. I can work rings around any of those old boys at the shop.”

Amy ran three balls before missing and turning the table over to her. “Please, he so knows you’re alive. The man is practically drooling.”

Chelsea couldn’t help herself. She had to look—and there was Finn Morgan, leaning casually against the bar, legs crossed at the ankle, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, and a bulge pressing against his zipper that he made no effort to hide. She licked her lips, nervous but unable to tear her gaze from him. He gave her a crooked smile, then pushed away from the bar. Oh shit, he was headed their way. She spun around, barely able to breathe. “Shit,” she hissed. “Is he—”

“Hello, ladies.” His deep, sensual voice washed over her, and she resisted the impulse to shiver as he set their food order on the table. “Special delivery. Mind if I join you?”

Oh God. The star of some of her most pornographic dreams was standing so close Chelsea could actually feel the warmth of his body seeping into hers.

She cleared her throat. “Of course, Mr. Morgan.” Oh Lord, was her voice actually shaking?

He reached around her and set a couple of quarters on the table. “I’ll take the winner.”

Yes, she’d dreamed of how he might take a woman.

His voice was warm and thick, like hot fudge drizzling over rich vanilla ice cream. He hadn’t even touched her, and her skin tingled and flushed, as though she were melting under the onslaught of all that rich chocolate.

“And Chelsea, my name’s Finn. Mr. Morgan was my daddy.”

She turned to face him. “All right, Finn it is.”

Holy crap, how the hell was she supposed to hold a cue stick with her hands shaking like this? Maybe it would work to her advantage and she would lose the game and get the hell out of here. She took aim and missed. She looked at Amy. “Your shot.”

Chelsea silently rejoiced as Amy set about running the table, then scowled at her friend when she deliberately allowed the cue ball to follow the eight into the pocket.

Amy grinned. “Oops! Your game, Chels.” She glanced over at the bar. “Oh look, there’s Emma. You guys go ahead and play. I’ll be back.”

Chelsea gritted her teeth. “Payback’s a bitch,” she murmured, but Amy merely blew her a kiss and flounced away, leaving her alone with the sexiest man alive, who was currently racking the balls.

“Your break,” Finn said, stepping back from the table to choose a stick.

“Right.” Chelsea broke the rack and studied the spread. Nine ball in the corner, followed by the eleven. Thirteen was a possibility. She leaned over the table, suddenly aware that Finn was behind her. Did her ass look huge when she bent over like this? She made the nine and eleven but missed the thirteen. “Your go.”

Finn stepped up and studied the table. “So, tell me about yourself, Chelsea.”

Chelsea shrugged. “Not much to tell. I trained at the NASCAR Institute. Did apprenticeships with the big three, worked for a major German manufacturer for a while.”

He leaned over the table and took his shot. Made it, then looked at her. “I read your résumé. I want to know about you.”


He ran the entire table before answering. “Because I like to get to know the women I take to bed.”

Chelsea uttered a strangled noise. “I—you—”

His soft laughter shot straight to her core. “Breathe, sweet pea.”

She took a gulp of air before speaking. “What would give you the idea that I’m even remotely interested in you, much less that I’d sleep with you?”

“Oh, darlin’, do you think I haven’t seen the way your eyes follow me when you think I’m not looking? That I didn’t see you looking at me tonight? The way your nipples got hard when you walked past me? How you licked those luscious lips when you saw how hard you made me?”

He stalked her around the table until she backed into the wall. “Admit it, you want me.” He replaced his stick in the rack next to her and rested his forearm on the wall above her head, effectively caging her in.

Her chin came up in a gesture of defiance. “Yeah, about as much as I want acupuncture between my toes.”

“Liar.” His breath tickled her ear as he leaned down. “You look good enough to eat, sweet pea, and I know just where I’d start. I’d press my mouth against all that pretty tanned skin. Right below your breasts. I can almost taste it now.”

Heaven help her, her heart was thundering in her ears and she actually felt light-headed. She wanted him to feast on her. Right there in front of God and everybody.

“Where’s Amy?”

“She abandoned her post.”

Oh God, he was nibbling her neck. Chelsea blinked. “Her post? She left?”

Finn chuckled, a deep rumbling noise like a purring cat. Only, this man was no domesticated house cat. No, Finn Morgan was pure predator. “Guess she figured you didn’t need a wingman. Wiggled her fingers, gave me a naughty grin, and headed out the door with your friend Emma.”

“She left me?” Gooseflesh prickled Chelsea’s skin when Finn nipped her earlobe.

He licked the tender skin just below her ear. “Mmm-hmm. Come on, we’re leaving.”

He took her hand and led her past the table, scooping up her purse and jacket as they went. Speechless, she followed.

It’s really going to happen. She was going to have sex with her totally hot boss. Maybe it was a good thing. Do it, get it over with so she could get back to the business of fixing cars and stop wondering what it would be like. Just this one night, a casual hookup—she didn’t do serious anymore. Not since Jimmy Lee Martin had broken her heart one time too many.

Finn led her around back to a nearly empty parking lot and keyed the remote to unlock the doors to his truck.

“Aw hell,” he growled and spun her around, pressing her back against the truck. “Can’t wait. Gotta have a taste.”

Copyright © India Masters


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