Delilah kicked her tire, her frustration echoing through the deserted stretch of road. Her beat-up car had chosen the worst possible moment to die, leaving her stranded in the middle of nowhere. She was a 20-year-old college student, and her study session was already running late. She groaned, kicking the tire again, when a gravelly voice interrupted her tantrum.
"Need a hand?"
Delilah looked up to see a man standing a few feet away. He was older, maybe in his forties, with broad shoulders, faded jeans, and grease-stained hands. His eyes were a stormy blue, and she noticed the faint tan line of a long-gone wedding ring on his left hand. He was rugged, handsome in a way that made her stomach flutter.
"Yeah, I guess I do," she admitted, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks.
The man introduced himself as Dean. He had a quiet confidence about him, a calm that seemed to radiate from his very core. He fixed her car in minutes, his strong hands working with a precision that was almost mesmerizing. As she watched him, she felt a strange ache, a hunger she couldn't explain.
"Follow me to my garage," Dean said, wiping his hands on a rag. "It's out of town, quiet. I'll make sure your car's in good shape."
Delilah hesitated, but only for a moment. There was something about Dean that made her trust him, despite the fact that he was old enough to be her father. She followed him to his garage, an old converted barn where The Rolling Stones hummed softly in the background.
Over the next week, Delilah found herself returning to Dean's garage, not because her car needed repairs, but because she needed to see him. She needed to feel the heat of his gaze, the way his storm-heavy eyes tracked her every move. She needed to feel the ache that grew stronger with each passing day.
One evening, she found herself in his kitchen at midnight, Dean standing between her legs, his breath hot against her neck. He was holding back, she could feel it. He was holding back a storm.
"You shouldn't be here, Delilah," he murmured, his voice a low growl.
She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. "Say the word, Dean," she challenged, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't say the word. Not that day, or the nights that followed. Instead, he kissed her, a deep, devastating kiss that left her breathless. His hands roamed her body, exploring every inch of her. She moaned as he cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, making them harden beneath her shirt.
Dean's hands were rough, calloused from years of work, but his touch was gentle, almost reverent. He peeled off her clothes, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in her naked body. She was young, her skin smooth and unmarked, her curves soft and inviting. He couldn't resist her, couldn't deny the hunger that gnawed at him.
Delilah gasped as Dean's mouth found her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple. She arched her back, pressing herself against him, her hands tangling in his hair. She could feel his hardness against her thigh, the evidence of his desire for her. She reached down, her hand wrapping around his thick cock, stroking him slowly.
Dean groaned, his head falling back. "Fuck, Delilah," he muttered, his voice strained. "You're going to be the death of me."
She smiled, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I hope not, Dean," she purred. "I've got plans for you."
She pushed him back, making him sit on the stool. She knelt before him, her hands running up his thighs, her eyes locked on his. She could see the hunger in his gaze, the raw, primal need. She leaned forward, her tongue flicking out to lick the tip of his cock. He tasted salty, musky, and she moaned, taking him deeper into her mouth.
Dean's hands fisted in her hair, his hips bucking as she sucked him, her tongue swirling around his shaft. She could feel him throbbing, his cock pulsing with each stroke of her tongue. She reached between her legs, her fingers finding her wet pussy, rubbing herself as she sucked him.
Dean watched her, his eyes dark with lust. "Fuck," he growled. "You're so fucking sexy."
He pulled her up, his mouth crashing down on hers. He could taste himself on her lips, and it drove him wild. He spun her around, bending her over the stool. He spread her legs, his fingers finding her wet folds. He rubbed her clit, making her moan, her body trembling with need.
"Dean, please," she begged, her voice breathless. "I need you inside me."
He didn't make her wait. He positioned himself behind her, his cock pressing against her entrance. He thrust into her, filling her completely. She cried out, her body stretching to accommodate him. He was big, bigger than anyone she'd ever been with, and it felt incredible.
Dean set a punishing pace, his hips slamming against her ass. Each thrust was deeper than the last, his cock hitting her G-spot with every stroke. She could feel her orgasm building, her body tensing as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.
"Dean, I'm close," she panted, her fingers gripping the stool.
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed her in time with his thrusts, his touch sending her over the edge. She came with a cry, her body convulsing as the pleasure washed over her. Dean followed soon after, his cock pulsing as he filled her with his hot cum.
They collapsed onto the stool, their bodies slick with sweat. Delilah leaned against Dean, her head resting on his shoulder. She could feel his heart pounding, his breath ragged. She smiled, a contented sigh escaping her lips.