Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
With that, he saunters off for the parking lot, and I’m left with two sweaty hands and a set of blank eyes.
And a lingering image of Diego swiping drinks out of my hand.
Bringing me a water bottle.
Me wandering away in a giggling fit.
Who the hell was I last night?
I’m still thinking about it through brunch, which takes place at Patsy’s Pastries & Pies. It’s a whole crowd of us, Nadine sitting down some ways from me, intent on chatting with me after eating, but I might as well be floating in the clouds for as unfocused as my mind is right now.
How Diego was practically scowling at me this morning when he came over for his jacket.
Then offered to drive me to church.
Did my dishes and took out my trash.
Seemed offended I’d even suggest he might take advantage of me in my drunken state last night.
I really don’t know Diego Valdez at all, do I?
I’m still in a stupor long after brunch—and after Nadine chats with me and sets up a meeting for Wednesday at her house—when I pull into my driveway and turn off the car. I get right out, shut the door, then just stand there staring at the wildflowers.
They’re blooming. Bigger than I expected them to. Fuller and brighter. Maybe better than they were before Diego thoughtlessly mowed them down.
I don’t remember crossing the grass, but I’m standing in front of the flowerbed suddenly, hearing all of Lance’s words again. Did you know he’s protective?
Are you his emotional support florist?
He kept looking at you like you were the only person in the whole damned place …
Then I look up.
Diego is at the window, staring back at me.
Same revealing tank top from this morning. Tattoos down his arms. Short hair, matted and messy. His eyes, dark, intense.
He disappears.
The front door opens.
I don’t even think. I just go to the door, step inside, and he’s right there.
I pick up the scent of motor oil and grease. It’s always faintly there when I’m around Diego. I think I’ve started to attach those manly, mechanical aromas to him. Pavlov’s Dog. The trail of oily, greasy car scents drawing me to him, waking my salivary glands.
Expecting dinner.
“Survived church?” he asks in a grunt.
I nod.
He doesn’t say anything for a short moment, just staring at me, perhaps noticing my silence. Then he nods over his shoulder at the fridge. “Need a pick-me-up? Juice? Coffee?”
I blink my eyes away from his chest where they’d just gotten trapped between his pecs.
Juice. Coffee.
Why is my mind suddenly in the thunderstorm room again? As if he’s still hovering over me. Pressing me down. Face in front of mine. Hot breath on my cheeks. Furious eyes.
Like he never let go of me.
“Wyatt?”
“Just a glass of water is fine,” I tell him, coming right up to the counter like I have a million times when his aunt and uncle lived here, grab a glass out of the cupboard right next to his body, set it down, forget about it, grab Diego’s hips, press him to the counter, and dive straight for his lips.
—18—
Diego
I’d be a damned liar if I said I didn’t want it.
Wyatt? Looking the way he does when he’s all dressed up for church in his tight khakis and cute shirt?
Feels like I’m ripping the clothes off my Sunday school crush.
And the way he attacks me like I’ve done something wrong to him. Like the mere fact that I exist somehow equally pisses him off and ignites lust-filled rage.
The glass he got out gets bumped into the sink. Maybe broke.
Neither of us care.
I’m in heaven when he slams me against the side of the fridge, knocking off an avocado magnet and a calendar.
I get his shirt off fast. He drags my tank top up over my head and tucks it behind my neck, exposing my chest.
I’m obsessed with how he devours me. How his fingers run all over my skin. How he isn’t afraid at all to take what he wants. To use my body. Like I’m the first and last man on earth.
I stumble backwards out of the kitchen and fall on the couch. Wyatt doesn’t give me a second to breathe, climbing right over me and burying his face in my chest.
This guy has no end to his hunger.
Good thing I don’t, either.
He kisses one of my nipples while his fingers tease the other. I put my hands on his head, his hair too short to grab, as groan after groan comes out of me.
When the hell did I become a groaner? I don’t groan. I’m the one who makes others groan.
I feel his fingers at the waistband of my flimsy gym shorts.
They slide down my thighs like butter.
And I ain’t wearing underwear.
“Fuck,” I hear him moan.
What is it, Wyatt? Did you just see something you like?