Page 13 of Desired By Diesel
That thought makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Not at her — at whoever made her think she didn't deserve to be wanted. At the ex who made her feel small. At every man who ever made her doubt herself.
But mostly it makes me want to show her what it's supposed to feel like.
Amelia came home Sunday night. I watched from my window as Gracie's car pulled into the driveway, as the kid bounced out and ran inside, as Gracie followed more slowly, shoulders tight.
We've exchanged waves since then. A nod in the driveway. Nothing more. She's been busy with work, with her kid, with her life. I've been giving her space, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to go over there and finish what we started.
Monday, I saw her bringing in groceries. Watched her bend over to grab a bag from the trunk and had to look away before I did something stupid like offer to help and end up pressing her against her car. That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the curve of her ass in those jeans. Thinking about how easy it would be to walk across the yard and knock on her door. I didn't sleep worth a damn.
Tuesday, she was watering the sad little plants on her porch when I got home from the clubhouse. She waved. I waved back. Stood there like an idiot watching her until she went inside. The water from the hose had splashed her shirt, made the fabric cling to her chest. I thought about that for the rest of the night. Thought about peeling that wet shirt off her. Thought about a lot of things I had no business thinking.
Wednesday, I jerked off in the shower thinking about her for the third time that week. Thought about her mouth, her thighs, the way she'd looked at me after that kiss — dazed and wanting. Came so hard I had to brace myself against the wall. And even that didn't help. Ten minutes later, I was thinking about her again.
This is getting pathetic.
I gave her my number after that kiss. Told her to text if she needed anything. She hadn't used it until now.
I'm on the couch, half-watching a game I don't care about, when my phone buzzes. I grab it too fast.
Gracie: Amelia's at a sleepover. First one since we moved.
I stare at the screen. Read it again. My heart rate picks up, which is ridiculous. I'm forty-two years old. I don't get nervous about texts from women.
Except apparently I do. About this one.
Gracie: I have wine. If you want to come over.
I'm off the couch before I finish reading. I check my reflection in the dark window and feel like an idiot for doing it. Run a hand through my hair. Tell myself to calm the fuck down.
She's just a woman. I've been with plenty of women.
But none of them have been her.
She opens the door before I knock.
She's wearing a silk robe — short, navy blue, loosely tied at the waist. Her hair is down, falling around her face in soft waves. Bare feet, toenails painted red. She looks nervous. She looks edible.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
We stand there for a beat, neither of us moving. I can see the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers fidget with the tie of her robe. She's been thinking about this too. Probably as much as I have.
Good.
"Come in," she says, stepping back.
Her place is small but clean. Lived-in. Kid's drawings on the fridge, a stack of library books on the coffee table, a blanket thrown over the back of the couch.
I follow her to the kitchen, trying not to stare at the way that robe barely covers her ass. Failing.
A bottle of red wine sits open on the counter. Two glasses, already poured. She's been waiting.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," she says, handing me a glass.
"Why wouldn't I?"
Her fingers brush mine during the handoff. Neither of us pulls away.
