Wet : The Pickup
He was only supposed to be inside for five minutes. She fixed laptops from her little flat above the corner store — everyone knew her as good with circuits and keys and secrets. He knocked, she opened the door wearing nothing but a loose tank top and soft shorts that looked more like panties. “Hey,” she said, brushing a twist of hair behind her ear. “Got your laptop working again. Wanna check it?” He stepped inside. Rain pattered against the window, the smell of solder and cheap jasmine candles hanging in the air. She bent over the table, showing him the open screen, the blinking cursor. He was trying not to look at the curve of her ass. He really was. “My girlfriend’s in the car,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “So—” “Five minutes,” she purred. “Won’t take long.” It didn’t. One kiss. One slow drag of her nails down his stomach. She sank to her knees on the threadbare carpet, tugged his jeans open. He told himself to stop her. He told himself this was insane. But her mouth w...