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)
Once we finish cleaning up, Diesel disappears down the hall, and I shuffle to the guest wing on wobbly legs. I barely manage my nightly routine before dropping into the comfy bed. I should be exhausted, but my whole body is a live wire. Every time I close my eyes, my mind replays that kiss. His tongue, his hands, the freaking way he owned me.
Holy fudgemuffin. There’s no way I’m getting any sleep. Not tonight. Regret flashes through me, and I call myself a coward for not demanding that Diesel finish what we started with that kiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DIESEL
The house is too fucking quiet. I’m lying under my covers, staring at the ceiling fan’s slow rotation. It’s been four hours since the kiss, and my cock is still hard as a goddamn rock.
I check my watch. 2:14 AM. The digital numbers glow a harsh, judgmental blue. Sleep is a distant memory from a time before I brought a blonde firecracker into my guest room and started imagining what it would be like to break every rule I’ve ever set for myself.
A sharp, metallic clatter echoes from the kitchen. It’s not the house settling. It’s not the wind. The noise sends my adrenaline spiking through my veins like a shot of pure nitrous. My body moves before my brain can catch up. I’m off the bed, feet hitting the hardwood without a sound. I pull on my jeans and don’t bother to button them as I reach for the holster on the nightstand.
I don’t turn on the lights. I know the layout of this place better than I know the back of my own hand, and the moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows gives me enough light to work with. I move down the hallway, my heart thudding a heavy, rhythmic warning against my ribs. If Kirk Voss found a way in here, they’re going to be scrubbing his remains off my Italian marble for a week.
I round the corner into the kitchen, muscles coiled, jaw set, ready to tear someone apart. Instead, I freeze. There’s no intruder. There’s no threat. There’s just Serenity, bathed in the pale glow of the open refrigerator, looking like a dream I’m not allowed to have. She's wearing pale pink silk. A camisole with thin straps that look like they'd snap if I so much as breathed on them. Matching shorts that show off every inch of her tanned, curved legs.
"Diesel?" she whispers, her eyes wide as they find me in the dark. She’s holding a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in the other, her hair a wild, golden halo around her face. "Oh my God, you scared me. I thought… I thought I was being quiet."
I can’t speak. My throat dries the fuck up as all the air in the room is sucked into the vacuum she’s created just by existing. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, the tension in my shoulders refusing to dissipate. I’m still half-convinced this is a hallucination brought on by stress, sleep deprivation, and years of repressed wanting. I reach out, my hand resting on the cool granite of the island just to ground myself.
"You’re supposed to be asleep," I say, and my voice is a rough, gravelly mess. It sounds like I’ve been eating glass. I don't look at her face. I can't. If I look at her eyes, I’ll see the trust there, and I’m currently feeling like the least trustworthy man on the planet. Instead, my gaze drops to the way the silk clings to her hips, the way her skin looks like it was carved from moonlight.
"I couldn't sleep," she says, stepping away from the fridge. The door swings shut with a soft thud, plunging us into deeper shadow, save for the blue light of the oven clock. "Every time I closed my eyes, I kept thinking I heard something outside my window. I needed a distraction.” She holds up the jar of peanut butter. “Nothing is a better distraction than eating Jif right off a spoon. Very sophisticated, I know."
She tries to laugh, but it’s a small, fragile thing that cracks at the edges. She’s still scared. Even here, behind three sets of locks and a security system that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, she’s looking for monsters in the corners. The protective rage that usually keeps me focused starts to blur into something much more dangerous—a desperate, aching need to close the distance between us and prove to her that nothing is ever going to hurt her again.
"The windows are reinforced, Serenity," I say, taking a step toward her. My bare feet are silent on the tile. I lay the Glock on the counter. "Nothing is getting through them. You’re safe. I promise."
"I know," she murmurs, putting the peanut butter down next to my gun. She doesn't move away as I get closer. If anything, she leans toward me, like a flower reaching for the sun. "I know I’m safe with you, Diesel. That’s the problem. When I’m with you, I feel so safe that I start thinking about other things. Things I probably shouldn't be thinking about when I’m a guest in your house and you’re doing me a massive favor."