The Man I Shouldn’t Want (2)

I lock the shop door with shaking hands. The metal clicks too loud like it’s announcing how unsteady I am. My reflection stares back at me in the glass… flushed cheeks, eyes full of chaos.

Diesel Gray is back. In my face. Under my skin. Everywhere.

The man I slept with the summer I turned nineteen.

The heels I wore for confidence feel like punishment now. I kick them off as soon as I get upstairs to my apartment. The space is warm, clean, and quiet, nothing like the storm inside me. I flick on a lamp and drop my keys in the bowl by the door.

He’s across the street. He’s really across the street.

I press my forehead to the window, staring out at the blacked-out sign of his shop, as if even the glass knew to keep secrets. Diesel Tattoo Co. I hate that it sounds good. Looks good. Feels permanent.

Just like that night.

It’s been years since it happened. Since I was nineteen and finally old enough to make the kind of mistake I’d been dreaming about for far too long, finally able to quiet that ache for the one man I was never supposed to want… and who ruined me in a single night.

Diesel never laid a hand on me before that night, but I saw it in the way he’d look away… the way he avoided being alone with me. Like he knew. Like he was afraid of what we both wanted.

The flashbacks hit fast: his mouth, rough and demanding; my legs shaking around his waist; the low groan he made when I told him I’d dreamed about this. About him.

I thought I meant it. I did. But then I panicked and ruined everything.

Because if I admitted how much it meant, I’d have to admit I wanted him all along. Even before I was old enough to know what that meant. Because wanting him meant betraying the rules, the roles, my father.

“It was a mistake,” I told him. “It’s just sex.”

But it wasn’t.

And I don’t think I’ve stopped wanting him since.

I rip my shirt off and toss it somewhere behind me. My skin feels hot and hypersensitive. My bra comes next, followed by my jeans. Each step through the apartment strips more than just clothes. My heart pounds like he’s touching me right now.

The moment I sit on the edge of my bed, I feel it. That ache. Low in my belly. Wet between my thighs.

I close my eyes and let the memories crawl back in. His voice. His smirk. The way he said “Don’t ask me to wait again.” like it was a threat and a promise.

He was angry. Still bitter that I ended it the moment we finally gave in to what we both wanted. That I told him we meant nothing. But underneath it I saw it… that same hunger.

I lie back, one hand slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. My other hand slides up to my chest, fingers brushing my nipple. It’s already tight and sore like my body remembers exactly how he bit it.

I spread my legs wider. My fingers move slowly, parting soft heat and dipping into the slick wetness building there.

I imagine it’s his hand. Rough, tattooed, firm.

That night I didn’t wait for him to make the first move. I wanted it... needed it more than I could breathe. He tried to hold back but I pushed, and when he finally gave in it was like he’d been starving for years. I melted under him, trembling, moaning his name like I didn’t care that he used to sit across from me at my father’s table.

He made me feel filthy and cherished in the same breath.

I circle my clit slowly, breathing uneven, mouth parted.

I can see him behind me, whispering in my ear.

“You miss me, Rosie?”

“Touch yourself for me.”

“You gonna come for me, Rosie? Like the needy little brat I should’ve bent over your father’s desk that night?”

God.

I slide one finger in, hips lifting off the bed. I curl it just right, imagining it’s him pinning me down, whispering how tight I still am.

The ache gets worse. Every nerve in my body lights up. My thighs shake.

I bite my lip hard, my walls fluttering around the single finger already inside me.

God, it’s not enough.

I hover there, breath catching because I can almost hear him. That low, rough voice at my ear.

“Ask for it, Rosie.”

I’d do it. I’d beg for more.

My hips jerk and I slide the second finger in, pumping faster now, louder, shameless. I’m panting his name, imagining his fingers in my mouth, his hands bruising my hips, his voice ordering me not to come yet then changing his mind and growling, “Come for me, Rosie. Come while I watch.”

I cry out as the orgasm crashes through me, the bedsheets hot and damp beneath my back, smelling faintly of my vanilla perfume. I clench around my own fingers, body arching off the bed.

Outside, a car door slams, I think I hear my neighbor’s footsteps too. Life is going on while I lie here shaking for a man I swore I’d never want again.

The pleasure fades slowly, but the shame doesn’t.

I lie there, sweaty, breathless, my thighs still twitching. I just came thinking about my father’s best friend. And tomorrow I’ll pretend it never happened. Just like last time.

But tonight, alone in the dark, I don’t have to lie.

I drag the sheets over my body and shut my eyes, knowing this isn’t over. Not even close.

I still want Diesel Gray. I always fucking have.