Chapter 6 #2
"Only around other people." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "Not around you. Not anymore."
The simple honesty of his statement steals my breath.
Before I can respond, we turn onto a narrow road that winds up into the mountains.
After a few minutes, we pull up to a cabin set back among the pines.
It's larger than I expected—two stories with a wraparound porch, warm light glowing from the windows.
"This is your place?" I ask as he helps me from the truck.
"Home sweet home." There's a hint of pride in his voice. "Built most of it myself."
"You built this?" I look at the cabin with new appreciation. "That's incredible."
He shrugs, but I can tell my admiration pleases him. "Took a couple years. Still adding to it when I have time."
Inside, the cabin is warm and inviting, with exposed wooden beams and an open floor plan.
A fireplace dominates one wall of the living area, flames already dancing over logs.
The furniture is solid and masculine without being spartan—a large leather sofa, sturdy wooden tables, bookshelves filled with well-worn volumes.
It's comfortable and lived in. Exactly what a home should be.
"This is beautiful," I say, turning slowly to take it all in. "It suits you."
Diesel looks pleased by my assessment, taking my coat and hanging it by the door. "Make yourself comfortable. Wine?"
"Please."
As he moves to the kitchen, I wander around the living room, examining the bookshelves. His taste is eclectic—engineering manuals sit alongside classic literature and contemporary fiction. I spot a well-worn copy of "The Old Man and the Sea" and smile, remembering our debate about Hemingway.
"Still think Hemingway's not overrated?" Diesel asks, returning with two glasses of red wine.
"More than ever," I accept the glass, our fingers brushing. "Though I'm surprised to see him on your shelf if you dislike him so much."
"Never said I disliked him." He leads me to the sofa. "Just that he's overrated. There's a difference."
"Semantics," I tease, settling beside him.
"Details matter." His eyes hold mine over the rim of his wineglass. "Especially the small ones."
There's something in his tone, something intimate that makes my skin prickle with awareness. The air between us shifts, charged with desire.
"Hungry?" he asks, though the heat in his gaze suggests food isn't what he's thinking about.
"Starving," I reply, letting my own gaze drop to his mouth. "But dinner can wait."
He sets his wineglass aside, taking mine and placing it next to his. Then his hands are cupping my face, drawing me to him with gentle insistence. Our lips meet in a kiss that starts soft but quickly blazes into something more urgent.
I shift closer, practically climbing into his lap. His hands slide down to my waist, then lower, cupping my ass and pulling me against him. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants me.
"Sandra," he groans as I roll my hips against his. "If we don't stop now..."
"Then don't stop," I whisper against his mouth. "I don't want to wait anymore."
His eyes search mine, looking for any hint of hesitation. "You sure?"
In answer, I pull my dress up and over my head, leaving me in just my bra, tights, and panties. His sharp intake of breath is gratifying.
"Fuck," he breathes, hands immediately going to my bare waist. "You're gorgeous."
His touch is reverent as he explores newly exposed skin, calloused fingers tracing patterns that make me shiver. When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, I arch into his touch, wanting more.
"Bedroom," he growls, standing suddenly with me still in his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me through the cabin to a large room dominated by a king-sized bed.
He lays me down gently, then steps back to unbutton his shirt. I watch hungrily as he reveals a muscled chest covered in tattoos—intricate designs that flow over his shoulders and down his arms.
"See something you like?" he echoes my words from days ago.
"Everything," I admit, reaching for him. "Come here. I want to touch you."
He complies, joining me on the bed, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the most delicious way. I run my hands over the planes of his chest, exploring the contours of muscle, tracing the patterns of ink on his skin.
"What does this one mean?" I ask, fingers following a design over his heart.
"Freedom," he says quietly. "Got it when I left Vancouver. Started over."
There's a story there, one I want to hear. But not now, not when his hands are sliding up my sides, his mouth leaving a trail of fire along my neck.
"Diesel," I gasp as his teeth graze my pulse point. "Please."
He understands what I'm asking for, reaching behind me to unclasp my bra. When it falls away, his eyes darken even further.
"Perfect," he murmurs before lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.
The sensation is electric, pleasure shooting straight to my core. I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him close. His tongue circles the sensitive peak before he sucks gently, then with increasing pressure that has me moaning his name.
His hand travels down my stomach, fingers playing at the waistband of my tights. "Can I?" he asks, ever respectful despite the obvious desire in his eyes.
"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."
He peels the tights and panties down my legs in one smooth motion, leaving me completely naked beneath him while he's still half-dressed. The contrast is erotic, his clothed body against my bare skin.
His fingers trace up my inner thigh, moving with tantalizing slowness toward where I need him most. When he finally touches me, finding me wet and ready for him, we both groan.
"So wet," he says, voice rough with want. "All for me?"
"Only for you," I confirm, hips rising to meet his touch. "Please don't tease."
He smiles against my skin, pressing kisses down my stomach as his fingers continue their exploration. "But teasing is half the fun."
Before I can protest further, he's moving lower, settling between my thighs, looking up at me with a question in his eyes. I nod, unable to form words as anticipation builds.
The first touch of his tongue against me nearly undoes me. He's confident, skilled, finding all the right spots without hesitation. One broad hand splays across my stomach, holding me in place as he drives me steadily toward release.
"Diesel," I gasp, teetering on the edge. "I'm close."
He redoubles his efforts, adding his fingers to the mix, curling them inside me to hit the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. My climax washes over me in waves, intense enough that I cry out, body arching off the bed.
Before I've even caught my breath, he's moving back up my body, capturing my mouth in a searing kiss. I taste myself on his lips and it's surprisingly erotic. My hands fumble with his belt, desperate to feel all of him.
"Let me," he says, standing to remove the rest of his clothes.
I watch, propped up on my elbows, as he strips down. His body is a work of art—all hard muscle and intriguing ink. And he's big, impressively so, his cock standing proud against his stomach.
"Condom?" I ask as he returns to the bed.
He reaches for the bedside drawer, extracting a foil packet. I take it from him, wanting to be the one to roll it down his length. His breath hisses through his teeth as my fingers encircle him, testing his girth, learning what makes his muscles tense with pleasure.
Once the condom is in place, he positions himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Our eyes lock as he slowly pushes inside, stretching me deliciously.
"Okay?" he asks, holding himself still once he's fully seated.
"More than okay," I assure him, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "Move, please."
He starts slow, with measured thrusts that gradually increase in speed and intensity as we find our rhythm. It's good—so incredibly good—his thickness hitting spots inside me that make my toes curl with pleasure.
"You feel amazing," he groans, one hand sliding down to lift my hips, changing the angle slightly. "So perfect around me."
The new position sends jolts of pleasure through me with each thrust. I dig my nails into his shoulders, meeting him movement for movement. The tension builds again, another orgasm approaching faster than I thought possible.
"Diesel," I gasp. "I'm going to come again."
"Yes," he encourages, his pace increasing. "Let go, Sandra. Come for me."
His words push me over the edge, pleasure crashing over me in waves. He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he groans my name, body tensing above me as he finds his own release.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat. He presses gentle kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, the corner of my mouth—tender gestures that touch me almost more than the passionate moments before.
"Damn..." I trail off, unable to find adequate words.
His laughter is a low rumble. "Same Sandra, same."
He gets up briefly to dispose of the condom, returning with a warm washcloth to clean me with surprising tenderness. Then he pulls me against his chest, arranging the covers around us.
"What about dinner?" I ask, though I'm too content to move.
"It'll keep," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "This is more important."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. I've had good sex before, but this was something else entirely. Something that felt dangerously close to making love rather than just fucking.
I should be scared by how fast this is moving, by how deeply I'm already feeling for him. But lying here in his arms, warm and sated and utterly at peace, I can't bring myself to worry about what comes next. For now, this moment is perfect.
And I'm falling hard for Diesel Torres, complete with all his grumpiness, his talented hands, his hidden softness. Falling in a way I never expected when my car broke down in his parking lot.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"How glad I am that my car is a piece of junk," I admit with a small laugh. "If it hadn't broken down, I never would have met you."
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest under my ear. "Your grandfather's car brought you to me. Maybe old Joe knew what he was doing after all."
The idea that Grandpa might have somehow engineered this from beyond makes me smile. "Maybe he did."
We fall silent, comfortable in each other's arms. Outside, snow begins to fall, coating the world in a blanket of white. But here, in Diesel's bed, I've never felt warmer or more at home.