Page 12 of Desired By Diesel
"Gracie."
His voice cuts through my rambling, low and rough.
"Yeah?"
"Stop talking."
And then he kisses me.
It's soft at first. Careful. A question more than a demand. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek, and I feel the calluses on his palm, the roughness of a man who works with his hands.
I answer the question by leaning into him.
The kiss deepens. His other hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I'm gripping the front of his shirt like I'm afraid he might disappear. He tastes like beer and something darker, something that makes me want more.
It's been so long since anyone touched me like this. So long since I felt wanted instead of owned.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His hand still on my neck, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin.
"That was probably a bad idea," I say, but I'm smiling.
"Probably." He's smiling too. Just a little. A crack in that stoic exterior. "Want me to apologize?"
"God, no."
He laughs — a low, rough sound that I feel all the way through me. "Good. Because I wasn't going to."
I should go inside. I should get some sleep, clear my head, figure out what the hell I'm doing. But I don't want to move. I don't want this moment to end.
"I should go," I say, making no effort to stand.
"Yeah," he agrees. He doesn't move either.
We sit there a little longer, shoulders touching, the night quiet around us. Eventually, I make myself get up. My legs are unsteady, and not just from the cold.
"Goodnight, Diesel."
"Night, Gracie." He looks up at me, and the way his eyes travel slowly down my bare legs and back up again makes my skin flush. "Sleep better."
I walk back to my house feeling lighter than I have in weeks. When I glance back, he's still sitting there, watching me go.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, pressing my fingers to my lips.
That was definitely a bad idea.
I can't wait to do it again.
CHAPTER 4
DIESEL
Ican't stop thinking about that kiss.
Three days. Three days since she sat on my porch in those little shorts, rambling about being a mess, and I shut her up with my mouth. Three days since she walked back to her house and looked over her shoulder at me, and I had to physically stop myself from following her inside.
I've replayed it a hundred times. The way she tasted. The little sound she made when I deepened the kiss. The way her body leaned into mine like she'd been waiting for someone to touch her like that for years.
Maybe she had been.
