Chapter 6
MARTINA
Diesel’s couch is super wide and quite comfortable.
Once I lie down, my whole body relaxes for the first time in over twenty-four hours.
I gather the blanket around me and try to get comfortable, but I have to pee.
I lie there for a few more minutes, trying to put it out of my mind, but it’s no use. I have to go now.
I push back the fuzzy blanket, and the chill of the air conditioner makes me shiver. Apparently, Diesel likes his apartment at sub-zero temperatures. Although I didn’t get a tour, I assume the bathroom is in the hall, and thankfully, I’m right.
I hear water running from his room and assume he’s taking a shower, but I put that visual out of my mind. As I do my business, I do a quick play-by-play of the past twenty-four hours, and I don’t think I missed one red flag.
Running away from the cartel holding me hostage. Seeking refuge in a strip club, where I find out my deadbeat brother does business. Getting up on stage in said strip club and strutting around in a G-string and five-inch stilettos.
Then, for the grand finale, I almost hook up with a notorious biker, but end up on his couch while he’s only about ten feet away.
Complicated, even for me.
When I exit the bathroom, the shower is still running, and his bedroom door is half opened.
I take three steps toward the door and stop.
What am I doing? I made a huge deal out of him not attacking me, and now I’m going to spy on him in his own bedroom?
Double standard in reverse. I turn away from his bedroom door and head for the living room, content in the fact I’m doing the right thing.
Oh shit, who am I kidding?
I spin around, ease down the short hall and stand just outside the door. Definitely the shower. From where I’m standing, I can see most of his room. Huge unmade bed against the far wall. So big, it must be custom-made. The clothes he had on before are strewn over a chair, along with his holster.
I caught a glimpse of it under his cut when we were downstairs, but seeing it on full display puts everything in perspective. The man runs with outlaws and is an outlaw himself. Maybe not even too different from the people Eduardo deals with, only playing for the other side.
Chances are Diesel’s already in the shower, and, yes, I should definitely head back to the living room and snuggle under the blanket, but risk-taker here.
I peek around the door, and the mirror over the bathroom sink gives me a perfect reflection of Diesel in his glass-enclosed shower. I bite hard on my lower lip as he dips his head under the stream of water, then soaps himself. Clothed, the man is perfection, but buck-ass naked—shit and goddamn!
Even him squirting soap into his palm is erotic, but then his hand lowers to his—oh my God—thick, rigid cock, and my mouth drops open.
His large hand barely surrounds his thickness, and I know I’ve never seen a man so well equipped.
I saw the bulge in his jeans, but this is more—way more.
Probably knocking one out ‘cause he didn’t get sex tonight—on his birthday.
I watch in awe as he braces one hand against the tile wall while he strokes his cock with the other.
Harder, faster, and I can’t help wondering if he’s thinking of me.
‘Cause I sure as shit am thinking of him as I sneak my hand inside the oversized shorts and find my swollen clit. My body keeps pace with his movements.
I grip the doorknob tighter, my heart speeds up, and I drive my finger deeper, keeping time with Diesel’s strokes while envisioning him taking me from behind.
I can’t pull my eyes away from him, totally mesmerized by the sight of him, raw, real, and out-of-control. If this is him jerking himself off, what kind of emotion would he display with real sex?
Diesel throws his head back on a shout, and my body contracts, then releases again. My knees buckle, my hand slips from the knob, and I hit my head on the door frame.
“Shit!”
The water turns off abruptly, and I tiptoe-race back to the living room, burrowing under the blanket. A few seconds later, I hear footsteps in the hallway. I squeeze my eyes shut, sensing his presence in the room, and finally I hear him retreat to his bedroom.
I heave out a sigh of relief and realize I had my second earth-shattering orgasm—in the same night, without actual sex, while conjuring up a man who can never be mine.
I wake up startled after a very vivid dream of me running naked plagues my nerve endings—not really a surprise after last night.
I keep my eyes shut as my brain does a mental checklist: get my clothes out of the dressing room and return Diesel’s clothes to him.
Then find out more about the fight club he mentioned outside the city—perfect for hiding out.
He also said they supplied a room for the fighters.
How bad could it be? I wasn’t picky after how I’d been forced to live the last six months. Then I’d make some money and be gone.
When my mind clears, the smell of fresh coffee and bacon wafts over me, and my stomach growls while I’m still half asleep.
I prop myself up on my elbows, and I’m able to watch Diesel in the galley kitchen, bare-chested with sweatpants hanging dangerous low on his hips.
He turns slightly, and I’m blessed with the sight of that glorious V where his abs meet his thighs and—just like last night watching him in the shower, my body coils from the inside out, and all logical thought is lost. The sooner I get out of this man’s apartment, the better, because I can’t be responsible for my actions.
For the first time, I think I understand addiction—the need to have something even though you know it’s bad for you and can bring you certain death.
He moves with purpose and proficiency like he’s done it all a hundred times before.
Again, I note his fluid motions, and my traitorous brain goes to sex, but then something else.
I look forward to seeing this man fight.
I’ve been around martial arts for most of my life, but I have a feeling Diesel would bring a whole different perspective and admiration for the sport.
Entranced in my thoughts, I miss him observing me looking at him.
“You really do like to watch, don’t you?” His smirky grin puts me at full attention.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Then he laughs like he caught my hand in the cookie jar.
I sit up further, and he holds up the frying pan. “I got eggs, bacon, pancakes.” He points to another pan. “And home fries.”
I push away the blanket, stand and point to the couch.
“You were right, it’s very comfortable.” I wonder how many other women have slept—certainly not on the couch.
I’m sure if Diesel had a woman, or more than one woman, in his apartment, they were all in that giant bed with him.
I was dying to ask him if that bed was custom-made ‘cause it was much bigger than a king-sized bed—but, of course, then I’d have to admit I was spying on him and watching him—nope wasn’t going there.
I run my fingers through my tangled hair, and he catches me.
“You look fine.” Our gaze lingers longer than normal.
“Just trying to get the knots out.” Another thing I hadn’t considered on my great escape—no toiletries.
He motions down the hall. “You can shower here, but first have something to eat.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of food.” I motion to the stove. “I’m not really a breakfast person.”
“What?” He screws up his face. “Most important meal of the day.”
Another anomaly. The outlaw extorting money and shipping contraband worried about nutrition. Of course, with his great shape, he most definitely paid attention to what he put in his body.
He pulls a plate out of the cabinet and loads it up with scrambled eggs, two slices of bacon and a pancake. “Eat whatever you want, but you gotta eat something.”
“Okaaaay, but I am grown, and I know what I like and what I don’t.”
“I’m sure you do, but eating right is important. Especially if you’re gonna be training.”
I have to admit it smells great, and since I haven’t eaten since—“Training?”
He fills his own plate, then sits across from me at the table. He cuts into a stack of pancakes and looks up at me. “Look, I get it.”
“Get what?” I finish off the bacon and fork-cut the scrambled eggs.
“In my thirty years, I’ve seen a lot of bullshit, but your story isn’t hard to guess.”
“Reallllly?” Now I’m scared. “Enlighten me.”
“It’s plain as shit; you’re running from something or, more likely, someone.”
My heart jacks up at an annoying level. “How do you come to that conclusion?”
“For one, I’ve known a lot of women in my day, and none of them ever leave the house without their purse, backpack or crossbody. It’s like a religion.”
“That’s pretty good; you know the actual names.”
“Been married twice.”
“Now that sounds like a much more interesting story than mine.”
“Later. Right now, I wanna know why you stumbled into a Tijuana strip club with nothing but the clothes on your back.”
“It’s really not that interesting.” Or something I plan on telling an outlaw biker who has dealings with my crazy brother.
“So bore me then. It’s the least I deserve after letting you sack out on my couch.”
“You have me there.” I reach across the table and touch his broad forearm. “I really do appreciate your kindness.” I motion to my plate. “And this food. I never eat breakfast, but this is really good.”
“My mother used to say, if you like to eat, you’ll like to cook—and I love to fuckin’ eat. I can still smell her chicken and biscuits and her country ham.”
“Your mother, huh?” I roll my lips inward, then smile. “Somehow I don’t picture you having a mother. More like you were hatched with super powers like Marvel Comics.”
“There you go with the jokes again.” His gaze falters, and I dread some horrible story about his mother.
“Sorry, I meant that to be directed to you, not your mother.”
“You would’ve liked my mother. She was tiny like you.”
At five feet five, I didn’t consider myself little, although I could definitely use some filling out in certain areas.
“Always trying to do her best at home for me and my brothers.”
Perfect, get him talking about himself and off me. “Where’s home?”
Most men love to talk about themselves, and I’m hoping Diesel isn’t an exception.