Page 52 of Diesel

My hand wrapped around my shaft, matching his rhythm. The double surge coiled pleasure tighter, until my vision blurred.

“Close,” I managed to groan.

“Let me watch.” He slammed in harder, deeper. “Come for me, Ollie.”

My orgasm struck like a bolt. My vision flooded white as I spilled over my hand and down my stomach, my body convulsing around him. A raw, urgent sound tore free from my throat. At the same moment, I felt his teeth clamp into my shoulder—the same fierce mark from before.

The sharp burn laced with pleasure, dragging out my release until I was panting.

Diesel growled, hips stuttering as he found his peak. The slick pulses inside me and the bite on my skin merged into one blistering sensation.

When he finally let go of my shoulder, he collapsed partly atop me, easing his weight so I wasn’t crushed. We lay there, breathing hard, sweat cooling in the dawn light.

“Jesus,” I breathed out.

“Yeah,” he said, lifting his head. His blue eyes were soft as they met mine. “You okay?”

“Better than okay.” I brushed my thumb along his jaw. “That was flawless.”

He slid free, dealt with the condom, and flicked it toward the trash—nailed the shot. Rolling to his side, he pulled me close, tucking me under his arm so my head rested on his shoulder and his arm settled snug around my waist.

The bite mark throbbed—two of them now, one on top of the other. The ache was grounding, a physical reminder that this was real. That he was real.

“Stay for breakfast,” Diesel said against my hair.

“Trying to feed me?”

“Trying to keep you here as long as possible.” His lips pressed against my forehead. “Got pancake mix somewhere.”

“Somewhere?”

“Kitchen’s not my strongest area.”

“You can rebuild an entire porch but can’t find pancake mix?”

“Different skillsets.” But he was smiling, I could hear it in his voice. “Help me look?”

“Only if I get to eat most of them.”

“Deal.”

Lying there in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of his body and the safety of his room, something settled in my ribcage. The loneliness that had been eating at me for months felt distant, pushed back by his presence, by the way he looked at me like I mattered.

“Diesel?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For yesterday. For helping Greta. For being there when I needed you.”

His arm drew me in tighter. “You’re in this now. That’s not changing.”

“In what, exactly?”

“Whatever I care about.” He said it like it was obvious. “Club looks after its people. You’re one of them now. Didn’t have to opt in.”

Something like that should’ve sent me running. Instead I felt the last of my resistance go soft, dissolving into the particular absurdity of it—these men with their criminal reputations and their weekend porch repairs, their whiskey and their paint-smeared hands.

“Okay,” I said.