Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I know the story. Alana used to tell me pieces. Their mom bailed when Alana was just a teenager. Diesel was in his mid-twenties, but he stepped up. He got out of the Army and came home for his sister.
He did everything. Soccer games, band concerts, fighting off asshole teachers who tried to write Alana off as “troubled.” He paid the bills. Made her lunches. Taught her to throw a punch and drive a stick and never let anyone walk all over her.
He probably had no clue what the hell he was doing, but he did it anyway. And damn if that doesn’t make me feel a weird, unfamiliar ache in my chest.
“You did,” I repeat, softer, because now that it’s out there, I want him to believe it. “Alana is the most loyal, brilliant, stubborn person I know, and you did that. Not your mom. Not any of the so-called grown-ups. Just you.”
Diesel lets out a breath in a rush. “You’re making it really hard not to kiss you right now.”
For a minute, all I can hear is the storm beating on the glass and the loud pounding of my heart in my ears. I’m not sure what’s happening in his head, but whatever it is, it feels enormous. “Maybe I want you to kiss me.” I decide to jump in with both feet. I barely get the last word out before Diesel pushes the table out of the way and hauls me into his lap. No warning. One second, I’m sitting there with my heart beating out of my chest, and the next, I’m crushed against his massive body, my ass settling right on top of his thighs.
He grabs my face in those big, rough hands and devours me.
Diesel kisses like he means it. Like every secret I’ve never said out loud is right there for him to taste. His mouth is hot, hungry, and so damn possessive I feel it all the way to my toes. My head spins. I might actually black out from the sheer intensity of it, but if this is how I go, sign me the hell up.
The sound I make is embarrassing and kind of desperate. I don’t even care. He licks into my mouth and groans low, a filthy, raw noise that makes me clench my thighs around his hips. Diesel’s tongue does things that should be illegal in all fifty states.
My hands dive into his hair, dragging him even closer. The cards and the candlelight are completely forgotten. There’s only him and the storm, and the way his arms wrap so tightly around me that I know nothing is getting through this wall of muscle and pure, unfiltered Diesel. I can’t hold back anymore. My hands slide up his chest, greedy and desperate, palms gliding over the impossible hardness of him. Holy hell. The man is built like a tank, and I want every inch of him pressed against me, on top of me, inside me. My arms go around his neck, and I thread my fingers into his hair. He bites my bottom lip, just hard enough to make me pant for more.
God, this kiss. I lose myself in it, all common sense and coherent thought completely gone. He doesn’t just kiss me; he owns me. His tongue goes deep, filthy and possessive, and I moan like I’ve never been kissed before in my entire life. Maybe I haven’t. Not like this.
I’m about two seconds from climbing him like a tree when the universe decides to bring me right the hell back to reality. The overhead lights blaze on, banishing the shadows and catching us tangled together like two horny teenagers on prom night. I jerk back, breathless, and stare down into his eyes.
Diesel grins up at me like he’s got absolutely no shame. Hell, I don’t either. Not with the way I’m sitting on top of him like he’s my personal throne. “Talk about shitty timing,” he grumbles.
“The worst.” I slip back off his lap. Damn. That was close. We both ignore the huge freaking elephant in the room—our kiss—as we clean up the living room.
Diesel drops down on one knee to scoop up the scattered cards. “We made a hell of a mess, sweetness.” His grin is pure trouble. For a second, I think about shoving him down and kissing him all over again. But now isn’t the time. It’s late, and we have to get up early in the morning.
“Yes, we did,” I mutter mostly under my breath as he blows out the candles while I peel myself off the rug and start gathering empty water bottles and the random snack wrappers that somehow exploded all over the coffee table. Our hands brush. Static. Instant electricity. All I can do is stare at him and hope he doesn’t notice how wobbly my knees are.