“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.”
