The offer, clearly outside his comfort zone, warms me from the inside out. "You'd willingly subject yourself to Christmas cheer for me?"
A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Don't sound so surprised. I'm not completely opposed to fun."
"Could have fooled me," I tease. "With all the scowling and grumbling."
He laughs, a rich sound that fills the cab of the truck. "I don't scowl that much."
"You absolutely do. It's your default expression."
"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.
