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. Somethingthat 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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DIESEL
Sunlight spills through the curtains, painting golden stripes across Sandra's bare back. She's still asleep, face half-buried in my pillow, curls spilling across her shoulders. I prop myself up on one elbow, just watching her.
I'm not a sentimental man. Never have been. But something about seeing her here, in my bed, in my space, fills my chest with an unfamiliar warmth I can't ignore.
Last night was... fuck, I don't even have the words. I've had good sex before. Great sex, even. But with Sandra, it wasn't just physical. There was something else. Something I haven't felt in a long damn time, if ever.
She stirs, eyelashes fluttering as she wakes. For a second, confusion crosses her face before her eyes find mine and she smiles, soft and intimate.
"Morning," she murmurs, voice raspy with sleep.
