Just fix my car, would you?

Picture this: I'm married to a limp-dick who can't even fetch my car on time. Told the useless fucker I needed him at the garage by four and he bails for overtime. Now I'm stuck cooling my heels another sixty minutes but the mechanic bent over that hood is all broad shoulders and grease-streaked forearms. He's got that cocky smirk, like he knows I’m sizing up what’s packing under those coveralls. My eyes trace the flex of his biceps while he tightens a bolt, and I can feel a hot throb right between my legs, the same throb my husband hasn't sparked in months. Maybe the wait won't be so bad. Maybe I’ll let those dirty fingers slide up my skirt and fill what’s been empty.