The certainty in his voice hits harder than any compliment. It doesn’t sound like flattery. It sounds like fact.
My chest aches. My eyes sting again. I blink hard, furious with myself.
Diesel leans in and presses his forehead to mine. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically. “It’s… it’s my first time.”
His mouth brushes the corner of my lips. “We don’t have to do this now. We can wait.”
That does it.
Something inside me gives way. I grab him and kiss him like I’m the one starving, like I’m the one who can’t stand another second without his mouth.
He makes a low sound and slides his hands to my waist, thumbs stroking slow circles through the fabric of the T-shirt. It’s such a small touch, but it feels like claiming. Like reverence. Like he’s memorizing me.
His hands move lower, fitting over my hips, and instead of shame I feel heat. Instead of wanting to hide, I want to press into him, want to make him feel all of me.
Diesel drags the T-shirt up, pausing when it reaches my ribs, waiting.
I lift my arms.
The shirt goes over my head, and cool air hits my skin. Firelight paints my curves in gold. I brace for the look men always give, the one that says too much.
Diesel’s gaze softens like a wound.
He leans in and kisses the center of my chest, then lower, and lower. Possessive in a way that makes my whole body spark.
My hands slide into his hair, damp at the edges. I tug, just a little.
His eyes flick up. Dark. Wanting.
He stands long enough to yank his own shirt over his head, muscles rolling under ink, scars catching the light. My mouth goes dry.
I shouldn’t want him this much.
But I do. I tug the flannel pants off, pulse hammering like I’m doing something reckless.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the words hit me right in the gut, not because I want to be praised, but because it’s the first time “good” has ever sounded like safety instead of control.
He lowers himself over me again, kissing me until I can’t remember how to think. His hand slides down my belly, then between my thighs, and I gasp when his fingers find me through the thin fabric, warm and certain.
“Diesel,” I whisper, like a prayer and a warning.
He kisses my throat, then my jaw, then the soft valley between my breasts, taking his time with me, one nipple and then the other.
“Tell me if anything hurts.”
He slides my panties down. Nothing hurts. Everything is heat and hunger and relief.
His fingers move with maddening patience, coaxing, learning, and my body opens for him like it’s been waiting its whole life for hands that don’t punish. I arch without meaning to, a broken sound falling out of me, and Diesel groans like it tears him apart.
“You feel like…” He stops, jaw tight, like he doesn’t trust himself to say it.
“Like what?” I breathe.
His eyes find mine. “Like mine.”
A thrill skates down my spine, sharp and dangerous. I should hate it.
