Just fix my car, would you?

The garage door slides shut behind her. She stands in a shaft of afternoon light that picks out the fiery strands in her hair and the full swell of her tits inside a thin silk blouse. Her husband promised to fetch the car, then left her stranded. Typical. Now the redhead waits while the mechanic wipes grease from his knuckles and watches the way her hips shift in a slow, impatient rhythm. She catches his look, smiles with the corner of her mouth, and steps closer. Her heels click on concrete. When he asks if she needs anything while the engine cools, her hand lands lightly on his forearm. Heat flares under her palm. She sinks to her knees on the old creeper mat without a word, pops the top button of his coveralls, and draws him out, already thick and heavy in her grip. Her mouth opens. She takes him in slow, savoring the weight on her tongue, letting spit trail down her chin as she works deeper. He reaches down, cups one heavy breast, thumb dragging over the stiff nipple pressing through lace. She moans around him, the sound vibrating straight through his shaft. Minutes later he pulls free, strokes twice, and paints thick ropes across her parted lips and flushed cheeks. She stays on her knees, breathing hard, come glistening on her skin like fresh pearl, the car still ticking behind them.