Free Blue-Collar Boys (Service Calls - Alpha Male Romance Erotica Stories) by Aria Hawthorne Page A

Repair Mechanical.  She spoke with someone who had a Polish accent.  He barely spoke English, and Susan was certain he had gotten her address wrong.  Still, she waited for Sir Speedy, and in the meantime, surrendered to her anxiety by gnawing off her manicured nail.  For the past three weeks, she had successfully fended off her bad habit, determined to have long, luscious nails for her wedding day.  But now, she had ruined her three-week, nailing biting dry run—all because Sir Speedy was less than speedy.  
    The door buzzer ran. 
    Susan spit out her torn nail and pressed the intercom button.  You better be a fucking bad ass , Susan thought as she whisked open the front door.
    Yes, oh yes.  Sir Speedy Furnace Repair Man was certainly a bad ass: a brown-haired, blue-eyed bad ass.
    “Hello,” the young man said with a Baryshnikov accent.  He stared at Susan from the doorway with unwavering confidence.  “I’m here to fix all problems.”
    The young man with the Baryshnikov accent didn’t wait for an invitation.  He brushed past Susan and entered her home.  His arm grazed her chest, almost pushing her aside with his commanding presence.  Moving straight into Susan’s living room, he opened up her mechanical closet as if he had been inside her apartment before.           
    “I only have one problem,” Susan retorted, certain that Slavic Sir Speedy was going to be nothing but trouble.  “And it’s the fact that my furnace is whistling.” 
    Susan crossed her arms and glared at Baryshnikov, intent on making it very clear from the beginning that he did not want to mess with her.  She had dealt with cocky, arrogant handymen in the past.  Her dishwasher had stopped working, and the repair man had convinced Susan to replace the whole unit.  Later, Susan learned that there was no problem with her dishwasher.  It was fine.  The problem was with Stan, who had accidentally flipped off the power switch under the sink cabinet when he was looking for the detergent.  That’s when Susan learned that being nice and cute and female only succeeded in getting her screwed out of five-hundred dollars. 
    That would not happen this time.  Susan crossed her arms and donned her ice queen persona—extra frigid and super-sized queenie.  Besides, Baryshnikov clearly knew he was attractive, and there was nothing worse than an attractive man who knew he was attractive. Except, of course, an attractive man who knew you were attracted to him.
    The repairman stepped away from the furnace, glancing it over, up and down.  “A whistle?  Like what kind of a whistle?”
    He shifted his gaze to Susan; he had no reservations about glancing her over, up and down. 
    Susan glared at him.  She could not believe this guy actually expected her to whistle for him.  “Like a bad irritating whistle,” Susan answered, seriously annoyed.
    He smiled, his eyes roaming.  Susan had considered carefully what to wear this morning; she had consciously made an effort to convey that she was a professional woman who would not be easily taken advantage of.  The repairman seemed to enjoy her choice.  She had put on a knee-length corduroy skirt with sheer frosting stockings, and a conservative white blouse with a string of pearls.  Stanley had bought her the pearl necklace for her thirtieth birthday.   
     “I’ve never heard of bad whistles.  Only good whistles,” he smirked and lowered his suede tote bag to the floor.  It clanked against the slats of Susan’s hardwood floors, and he bent forward to retrieve his wrench and screwdriver.  His sculpted arms dangled from his tapered waist.  He pitched his long, slender legs forward, and his taunt back arched with a single curve, forcing the folds of his blue service shirt to stretch and tighten across his shoulder blades.
    Susan felt herself staring.  Her super-sized ice queen routine was in danger of thawing.  She shifted her gaze and concentrated on the label of his