Tales Of A Taxi Ride 2

She strolled up while he wrestled with a lug nut, grease streaking his forearm. "Hey, need a hand?" Simple offer. He glanced up, eyes narrowing on her shape in the half-light—hips sharp under thin cotton, smile half invitation, half dare. She rolled her sleeves, dropped to one knee beside the flat, and went straight to work, fingers quick and sure. Metal clanked, rubber squeaked, and within minutes the spare sat tight. He wiped sweat from his brow. "Thanks," he muttered, light from the streetlamp catching the tight line of his jaw. She stood, wiped palms on her jeans, and her next sentence dropped like a lit match. "Let me meet your wife." No smirk, just that cool, steady stare that left no room to dodge. He felt the world tilt—heat pooling low in his gut, a sudden pulse under his fly. The street seemed to shrink to the slick spark between them. He swallowed, heartbeat hammering against his ribs, while visions he shouldn’t want crashed together: sweat-slick bodies, tangled sheets, the taboo weight of his ring brushing another woman’s skin. A long, tight moment passed. Then he nodded, slow, eyes burning with the thrill of crossing lines he’d sworn to keep intact.