Dizzojay's Dean Dreams

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He’s wearing those jeans I like; the really old faded ones with the frayed hole across the left knee.  You know, the ones that are a little saggy round the rear, and ride down when he bends over to reach into my engine compartment.

In fact, they’re working their way down right now as he’s leaning over to check my solenoids.

Not that I’m looking or anything, but there’s a little black smear of oil across the middle of his back from the last time he tried to pull them up.

Don’t worry honey; trust me, they’re fine where they are.

You know, having Dean getting down and dirty, handling all my moving parts is just … well …

It’s a very intense and personal moment for both of us.

He’s standing there in front of my open hood, all sweaty and grimy; covered in oil and road dust, wiping  his hands on his T-shirt.

I’m mesmerised by the way his biceps flex when he’s tightening up my nuts and bolts; and the way his tongue peeks out between those plush pink lips when he’s topping up my fluids.

Oh dear, please excuse me … but I think they may need topping up some more!

His hands are so strong, so deft.  He handles my components as if they’re something precious, and he talks to me all the while; telling me how beautiful I am, murmuring in that voice … oh my, it’s like drowning in melted chocolate.

He’s measuring my oil levels - he’s so masterful with that dipstick - and I study the strong line of his jaw down the long, sweeping curve of his throat, down the centre of that broad, firm chest, down … down …

*Sigh*

A lady’s gotta have her secrets, okay?  And, surely you can’t blame me for breaking down on purpose occasionally, can you?

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