“You want me to enroll you in ballet with Izzy?”
I shrug my shoulders before muttering, “No. It seems boring as hell.” He made his point and all, but I have the urge to make him see my point of view. “And this isn’t about ballet. It’s about—I don’t know what it’s about.”
Even though I feel like sharing, I can’t bring myself to share everything. I want to tell him that I resent my father for not letting me be a normal kid, for not letting me be a little girl who pretended she was a princess—for wanting me to be a warrior and not a child. And I hate what that training has made me—rigid and cold and so lacking in femininity that even after sleeping with a man for ten years, I still wasn’t woman enough for him to want by his side.
“This is why I stopped. There’s been a war raging inside you since we got off the highway.”
Again with the gentle from him. Fuck. If he keeps this up, he’s going to see a side of me that even I rarely ever get to see. I bet Holly fucking Mercer doesn’t hate feeling vulnerable. I bet she melts into Grady and looks at him like he’s some kind of demigod who can solve all her problems.
“I’ll lock it down.” I take a deep breath and force a smile to my face that I know he’s going to see through.
And he does. He shakes his head and stands, forcing me a step backward. His hands trail up the curves of my body to my shoulders and then the sides of my neck. He tightens his grip and pulls me in, so close to his face that I can’t focus on anything but his eyes. Not his thick, gorgeous lips, not his golden brown skin, or his wide, defined nose. It’s his eyes—these eyes that just obliterate every thought in my brain. They’re a deep, dark, gorgeous brown.
When I was little, my mom used to tell me stories about a Cheyenne legend that warned of looking into the eyes of an evil man, for doing so would result in blindness. I’ve always thought of Cheyenne legends just like those of fairytales or Bible stories. There may be some historical basis in them, but it’s mostly fluff and fantasy. Right now, though, as I’m staring into Diesel’s intense, probing gaze, I can’t help but feel blinded. Like I’m only seeing what I want to see.
“That’s not how this is gonna work.” His words come out on a whisper, so softly and with so much feeling that I’m completely sucked in. My eyes drop to his lips as he sucks in a deep breath and then stills. The gentleness of his words and the kindness in his eyes freaks me out a little. And I wait because he’s in control here, and even more than that, I want him in control.
“Something tears you up, even a little, and you unload on me. I know you can take care of yourself—proved that a damn long time ago—but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to. That’s how we work, babe.”
“If you’re doing that for me, then shouldn’t I be doing something for you?” Yep, blinded. I’m flying blind here because normally I wouldn’t say something like that. It’s too honest and I hate going deep like this. The warmth of his eyes and the barely there smile on his face tell me he approves of me going deep, so even if I don’t really like it, I like putting that smile on his face.
“You already are,” he says. One hand drops to my side, and he pulls me against his built frame. He’s only a few inches taller than me, so his lips are close. Close enough to make a mistake I won’t regret later. His eyes drop to my lips and mine drop to his. He doesn’t move, though. The lack of progress we’re making in this—whatever it is—gets to me, and I close my eyes and breathe him in. Without another thought, I press my lips into his. He responds immediately and growls into my mouth. His tongue slides against my wet lips, and I invite him in, welcoming the way he invades me, dominates me, and sends such delicious shivers up my spine. Kissing Diesel is like finally getting a taste of something you were craving.
Chapter 3
The park is crowded with a whole mess of kids when we arrive. They’re running around the grass, climbing on the play structure, and screaming joyfully. I hang off to the side for a few minutes, just surveying the scene before me. Barbara stands at a picnic table that’s loaded with presents and a pink bakery box that just has to be the cake. I lick my lips without even realizing it and pray that Izzy’s still as much a fan of yellow cake with chocolate frosting as I am. Emotional crap activates my sweet tooth like nobody’s business.