Page 100 of Diesel

I kiss him. Slow this time. Deep. His hand slides into my hair, tilts my head back, and I let him take over, let him set the pace.

His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, the spot behind my ear, and I arch into him.

"Missed you today," he says against my skin. "Kept thinking about you in here. Writing. Wearing my shirt."

"You saw me through the window."

"Not the same." His teeth graze my collarbone. "Couldn't touch."

His hands find the hem of the shirt—his shirt—and drag it up slowly, knuckles brushing my ribs, my stomach, the underside of my breasts. I lift my arms and let him pull it over my head.

He sits back and looks at me.

"Diesel."

His hands spread across my stomach, warm and huge. "Let me look."

I let him.

He dips his head and finds the scar on my shoulder with his mouth. He kisses it soft, then careful, then not so careful.

I drag his tank top up and he leans back just long enough to pull it off. And then it's skin on skin, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his hips settling between my thighs.

"Eden." My name in his mouth, rough and low.

"I'm here."

"I know." He rocks against me and I gasp. "Just like hearing you say it."

We've done this before. Plenty of times in the last six months.

Maybe it'll stop surprising me eventually.

His hand slides between us. Finds me.

There it is.

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