4. Diesel
DIESEL
Ican't stop thinking about that kiss.
Three days. Three days since she sat on my porch in those little shorts, rambling about being a mess, and I shut her up with my mouth. Three days since she walked back to her house and looked over her shoulder at me, and I had to physically stop myself from following her inside.
I've replayed it a hundred times. The way she tasted. The little sound she made when I deepened the kiss. The way her body leaned into mine like she'd been waiting for someone to touch her like that for years.
Maybe she had been.
That thought makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Not at her — at whoever made her think she didn't deserve to be wanted. At the ex who made her feel small. At every man who ever made her doubt herself.
But mostly it makes me want to show her what it's supposed to feel like.
Amelia came home Sunday night. I watched from my window as Gracie's car pulled into the driveway, as the kid bounced out and ran inside, as Gracie followed more slowly, shoulders tight.
We've exchanged waves since then. A nod in the driveway. Nothing more. She's been busy with work, with her kid, with her life. I've been giving her space, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to go over there and finish what we started.
Monday, I saw her bringing in groceries.
Watched her bend over to grab a bag from the trunk and had to look away before I did something stupid like offer to help and end up pressing her against her car.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the curve of her ass in those jeans.
Thinking about how easy it would be to walk across the yard and knock on her door. I didn't sleep worth a damn.
Tuesday, she was watering the sad little plants on her porch when I got home from the clubhouse.
She waved. I waved back. Stood there like an idiot watching her until she went inside.
The water from the hose had splashed her shirt, made the fabric cling to her chest. I thought about that for the rest of the night.
Thought about peeling that wet shirt off her.
Thought about a lot of things I had no business thinking.
Wednesday, I jerked off in the shower thinking about her for the third time that week.
Thought about her mouth, her thighs, the way she'd looked at me after that kiss — dazed and wanting.
Came so hard I had to brace myself against the wall.
And even that didn't help. Ten minutes later, I was thinking about her again.
This is getting pathetic.
I gave her my number after that kiss. Told her to text if she needed anything. She hadn't used it until now.
I'm on the couch, half-watching a game I don't care about, when my phone buzzes. I grab it too fast.
Gracie: Amelia's at a sleepover. First one since we moved.
I stare at the screen. Read it again. My heart rate picks up, which is ridiculous. I'm forty-two years old. I don't get nervous about texts from women.
Except apparently I do. About this one.
Gracie: I have wine. If you want to come over.
I'm off the couch before I finish reading. I check my reflection in the dark window and feel like an idiot for doing it. Run a hand through my hair. Tell myself to calm the fuck down.
She's just a woman. I've been with plenty of women.
But none of them have been her.
She opens the door before I knock.
She's wearing a silk robe — short, navy blue, loosely tied at the waist. Her hair is down, falling around her face in soft waves. Bare feet, toenails painted red. She looks nervous. She looks edible.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
We stand there for a beat, neither of us moving. I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers fidget with the tie of her robe. She's been thinking about this too. Probably as much as I have.
Good.
"Come in," she says, stepping back.
Her place is small but clean. Lived-in. Kid's drawings on the fridge, a stack of library books on the coffee table, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch.
I follow her to the kitchen, trying not to stare at the way that robe barely covers her ass. Failing.
A bottle of red wine sits open on the counter. Two glasses, already poured. She's been waiting.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she says, handing me a glass.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Her fingers brush mine during the handoff. Neither of us pulls away.
"I don't know. I thought maybe... after the other night... you might have changed your mind."
"About what?"
She looks up at me, and there's vulnerability there. Uncertainty. "About this. About me."
I set the glass down on the counter without drinking. Take hers and set it down too. She watches me, her lips parting slightly.
"I haven't changed my mind about anything," I say, stepping closer. "I've been thinking about you for three days straight. About that kiss. About what I wanted to do after that kiss."
Her breath catches. "What did you want to do?"
"You really want me to tell you?"
"Yes."
I back her against the counter, my hands finding her hips. She sucks in a breath but doesn't pull away. Her hands come up to rest on my chest, fingers spreading across the fabric of my shirt.
I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear. "I wanted to follow you inside. I wanted to peel those little shorts off you and find out what sounds you make when someone touches you right. I wanted to spread you out on your bed and taste every inch of you until you forgot your own name."
She shivers. Her fingers curl into my shirt, gripping tight.
"That's what I've been thinking about," I say, pulling back to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dark. "So no. I haven't changed my mind."
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she reaches up, fists her hand in my shirt, and pulls my mouth down to hers.
This kiss isn't careful. It isn't a question.
It's hunger and heat and weeks of tension finally snapping.
I grip her hips and lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs as she wraps her legs around me.
The robe rides up, baring more of those thighs I've been trying not to stare at since the day she moved in.
She moans into my mouth when I pull her tighter against me, and I feel it everywhere. My hands slide up her legs, feeling the soft skin, the way her muscles tense under my touch. She gasps when my fingers reach the edge of her underwear — lace, I can feel it — and I smile against her lips.
"Expecting company?"
"Hoping," she breathes. "Is that bad?"
"That's the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me."
I kiss down her neck, scraping my teeth against her skin. She tilts her head back to give me better access, her fingers threading through my hair, nails scraping against my scalp in a way that makes me want to bite down harder.
So I do. Gently. Just enough to make her gasp.
"Bedroom," she says. "Please."
"Not yet."
I slide my hand between her thighs, pushing the lace aside, and find her soaking wet. She gasps when my fingers make contact, her hips jerking against my hand.
"You're drenched," I murmur against her throat. "How long have you been like this?"
"Since I texted you." She's panting already, grinding against my fingers. "Since before that. Since—"
I push two fingers inside her and she breaks off with a moan. She's tight, clenching around me, and I curl my fingers to find the spot that makes her whole body jolt.
"Oh god—"
"That's it." I work her slow and deep, my thumb circling her clit, watching her face. "Let me feel you."
"Diesel, I'm going to—" She sounds shocked. "Already, I'm—"
"Then come."
She does. Right there on her kitchen counter, her thighs clamping around my hand, her head thrown back, a sound coming out of her that I want to hear every day for the rest of my life. I keep working her through it until she's shaking, until she grabs my wrist.
"Stop — too much—"
I pull my fingers out and she whimpers — then watches with dark eyes as I bring them to my mouth and suck them clean.
"Jesus Christ," she breathes.
"Now we go to the bedroom."
I lift her off the counter and she wraps herself around me, her mouth finding mine, kissing me like she's trying to devour me. I carry her down the hall, nearly walk into a wall because I can't stop kissing her, and finally get us to her room.
I set her on the edge of the bed and she immediately reaches for my belt.
"Off," she says. "Now."
I like this version of her. Demanding. Greedy.
She gets my jeans open and shoves them down, and when my cock springs free she makes a sound that goes straight to my ego. Her hand wraps around me and I have to lock my knees.
"Gracie—"
"I want this." She strokes me, base to tip, her grip firm. "I've been thinking about this for days."
"Yeah?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "What have you been thinking?"
"About how you'd feel inside me." Another stroke. "About whether you'd fuck me hard or make me wait."
"Both." I reach down and still her hand before I embarrass myself. "But right now I just need to be inside you."
"Finally," she breathes.
I strip off my shirt and she watches me with dark eyes, her gaze tracking down my chest, my stomach. When I kick off my jeans and boxers, she makes a sound that goes straight to my ego.
"Lie back," I tell her.
"No." She sits up, pushes at my chest until I'm the one sitting on the edge of the bed, and climbs into my lap. "I want it like this."
I grip her hips as she positions herself over me. "You sure?"
"I've been thinking about riding you for three days." She sinks down onto me, inch by inch, and we both groan. "So yeah. I'm sure."
She's so fucking tight. So hot and wet that I have to dig my fingers into her hips just to keep from losing it right there. She takes all of me, settling into my lap, and for a moment neither of us moves.
"God," she breathes. "You feel—"
"I know." I flex my hips, pushing deeper, and watch her eyes flutter. "You feel incredible."
She starts to move. Slow at first, rolling her hips, finding a rhythm. Her hands grip my shoulders for balance, and I lean back on one arm to watch her — watch the way her breasts bounce with each movement, the way her head falls back, the way she's completely lost in how good this feels.
This is what she's been missing. This is what that piece of shit ex never gave her.
"That's it," I groan. "Take what you need."
She does. She rides me harder, faster, chasing her own pleasure, and it's the hottest thing I've ever seen. I reach up and cup her breast, roll her nipple between my fingers, and she gasps.
"Diesel—"
"I've got you." I sit up, changing the angle, and wrap my arm around her waist. She's pressed against my chest now, her hips still moving, and I can feel every inch of her. "Come on, baby. Take it."
She grinds down on me, her clit rubbing against me with every stroke, and I can feel her getting close. Her movements are getting erratic, desperate, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"I'm going to—"
"Do it. Come on my cock."
She falls apart.
She clamps down on me so hard I see stars, her whole body shaking, my name torn from her throat. And the feel of her pulsing around me, the sounds she's making, the way she's completely lost in it — that's what drags me over the edge.
I bury myself deep and let go, groaning into her neck as I spill inside her.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. We're both breathing hard, slick with sweat, wrapped around each other on the edge of her bed.
Eventually, she pulls back to look at me. Her hair's a mess, her cheeks are flushed, and she's smiling in a way I've never seen before. Satisfied. Almost smug.
"I needed that," she says.
"I could tell."
She laughs — a real laugh, loose and happy — and I realize I'd do just about anything to hear that sound again.
We untangle ourselves and collapse back onto the bed properly, her curling against my side, her head on my chest.
"I didn't know it could be like that," she says quietly.
"Like what?"
"Like I actually mattered." She's quiet for a moment, her fingers drawing absent shapes on my stomach. "With Ryan, it was always... mechanical. Like he was checking a box. Get her off if there's time, but don't worry too much about it. His orgasm was the finish line. Mine was optional."
I tighten my arm around her. "How long were you married?"
"Seven years. Together for eight." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I think I came with him maybe... ten times? In eight years. And half of those were because I did the work myself."
The rage that pulses through me is white-hot. Eight years of being treated like her pleasure didn't matter. Eight years of a man who was supposed to love her treating sex like something he did to her instead of with her.
"He was a fucking idiot," I say.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." I press a kiss to the top of her head. "That's never going to be a problem with me. You understand? Your pleasure isn't optional. It's the whole point."
She tilts her head up to look at me, and there's something in her eyes that makes my chest ache. Wonder, maybe. Like she's not sure she believes me but she wants to.
"Why?" she asks.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care? You barely know me."
I think about that for a moment. About the woman I've been watching for two weeks, the one who checks her rearview mirror like she's always expecting someone to be following her. The one who smiled at me over broken eggs and didn't run when her kid outed her for watching me through the window.
"I know enough," I say. "I know you're stronger than you think you are.
I know you uprooted your whole life to protect your kid.
I know you deserve a hell of a lot better than what you've been getting.
" I brush a strand of hair off her face.
"And I know I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the day you moved in. "
She doesn't say anything. Just stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Then she leans up and kisses me — soft, slow, nothing like the desperate hunger from earlier. This is something else. Something that feels like a beginning.
When she pulls back, she's smiling. "Stay. Tonight. I have to pick Amelia up at nine, but..."
"I'll be gone before then."
She relaxes against me, her head settling back on my chest. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for wanting to stay."
We lie there in the quiet, her body warm against mine. Her breathing slows, evens out. She falls asleep first, her hand resting on my chest.
I stay awake a little longer. Watching her. Thinking about how different she looks right now — soft, satisfied, peaceful.
Thinking about how I'm going to make sure she always looks like this.
Thinking about Ryan, and what I'm going to do if he ever comes near her again.
I pull her closer and close my eyes.
Tonight, she's mine.