My momma always told me that if I rolled my eyes too often, they’d get stuck in that position, which means at this very moment, I am in imminent danger of having my cheek muscles and my eyes stuck in unflattering positions.
I turn on my heel, digging myself deeper into the lawn, and come face to face with Fabio. Okay, maybe not the Fabio ‘cause he’s an old dude, but this guy has it going on—long, flowing hair, a chiseled jaw that looks like it could potentially jackhammer its way through concrete, and muscles everywhere. Hell, this guy’s dick could probably out bench press me.
But instead of suitably drooling and cooing and laughing at his (awful) pick-up line, I’m just left cold. Like someone put me into an ice chest. Or, Wisconsin in January.
“Hi,” I say automatically, putting my hand out to shake his. He grabs it and yanks me toward him, throwing me off-balance and crashing into his rock-hard chest.
And rock-hard dick.
My eyes immediately shoot up to his and he just grins at me, obviously expecting me to take his hard-on as a compliment.
“Does a pretty lady like you want to—”
“Nope!” I say loudly, yanking back from his arms and righting myself on my heels again.
Who thought that stilettos were a good idea at a garden party again?
“But I haven’t even asked—”
“And I’m already saying no,” I cut him off. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
His face went from leering to angry in a flash. “Goddamn bitches, wearing skirts like that and then acting like they’re too good to throw back a drink with—”
Which statement is also cut off, but this time by the rumbling of motorcycles. A lot of motorcycles.
Now, as previously mentioned, I’m at Kim and Cody’s house. In the Hamptons. To say that there aren’t a lot of motorcycles that roam the streets here is…well, like saying that Coach handbags are worth dying for. You don’t get much more “duh” than that.
Kim and I just stare at each other for the longest moment of my life and then I’m ripping my heels off my feet so I can run, goddamn run across the backyard and up the side yard and into the front yard—OMG, Kim, buy a smaller house next time for God’s sakes—and there, oh god, there is Diesel.
Except, for the first time since I’ve met him, he actually looks like a fucking outlaw. Blue bandana and black leather vest and leather chaps; holy fucking god above, is he hot, and he’s swinging off his Harley and coming straight for me, swinging me up into his arms and kissing me, endlessly kissing me and I can’t breathe and I don’t care because Diesel is there, he’s fucking there.
Eventually, as Diesel is working his way down my chest and I’ve got my head tilted back and he’s about to pull my tit out of my bra so he can suckle on it, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Wha–what?” I ask blearily, too horny to think straight, and then I feel someone pulling me away from Diesel’s embrace and through crossed eyes, I realize that it’s Kim.
“Do you two want a room?” she asks sarcastically.
“Yes,” Diesel says, scooping me up into his arms and heading for the front door.
“Up the stairs, down the hallway, second door on the right,” Kim calls after us, and I’m finally realizing that I’d been about to fuck in public. In front of 200 houseguests, on my best friend’s front lawn. Mortified, I bury my face into Diesel’s shoulder and breathe in deep.
God, he smells good.
“I was in the Black Fist before I went to work for the family business,” Diesel says, someone opening and closing the front door for us. I don’t lift my head to see who because I’m too damn embarrassed. I may never show my face in public again.
“I really was the president, and then I decided to step back from it when my father asked to have me take over the Caldwell Corporation. He needed me and I couldn’t tell my father no.” Diesel is taking the stairs now, still carrying me in his arms, and I love it. I love the feeling of being loved, of being protected, of having someone take care of me. “I had to erase everything about my presence online. That’s why you get nothing when you google or Facebook me.”
I pause, listening to his words, my heart stopping with every word.
“I’ve never lied to you, Lisa, not once, not about anything. The only person I’ve lied to is myself.”
We’re in the guest bedroom now and Diesel kicks the door closed behind us, laying me down on the bed, staring down at me as he begins to strip. “I thought I could live without you, but I can’t. That day on the train station platform, I jumped in without thinking, and it was the best move of my life. Better than any business deal I’ve ever made. Better than any house or company that I’ve bought or sold. That day, I found you, and so I found me. Lisa, I love you. Please don’t ever make me live without you.”
Tears are filling my eyes now and I feel stupid all over again because I’m not normally someone who cries easily—sarcastic responses are more my style—but right here? Right now? All I can say is the truth.
“Diesel, I love you, too.”
98