Diamond Devil by Naomi West
TAYLOR
Who just spoke?
It couldn’t have been me. I, Taylor Theron, would never get in a stranger’s car, blab my entire sob story without taking a single break to inhale, and then beg him to kiss me.
Except that there’s a weight in my chest the size of Chicago, and a need sitting on top of it that’s twice as big. He told me to stop thinking about everyone else. He told me to tell him what I wanted.
And apparently, what I want is a kiss.
No, not just a kiss. A kiss from this man. A man who’s so unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. A man who my father would take one look at and lock me up in the tallest tower he could find.
That’s me. A golden-haired Rapunzel with a sailor’s mouth and a fear of heights.
His eyes bore into mine, holding me there like a captive. The waiting makes it feel like he’s deliberating. To kiss the girl or not to kiss the girl? I can practically see the wheels in his head turning. She seems like a basket case, but maybe her kissing isn’t as sloppy as her crying.
“That’s a dangerous request.”
“You asked me what I wanted.”
“I thought you had a small modicum of self-preservation.”
Is this rejection? Or is he just trying to make sure I’m not so vulnerable that he’d be taking advantage?
I strike that thought almost immediately. He really doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’d have any moral qualms about taking advantage of anyone.
“I’m tired of being careful all the time,” I explain. “It’s exhausting.”
He smiles cryptically. “I’m warning you right now. If I kiss you, I doubt it’ll stop there.”
A shiver ripples down my spine. But it’s not just nerves; it’s excitement. Honestly, my dad is to blame. He’s tried so hard to keep me safe that it’s made me want to run right into danger.
And this man…he’s danger personified.
“You asked me what I wanted,” I say, sucking in a breath. “And I told you. If you don’t want to kiss me, then just say that instead of—”
I gasp when his lips come down on mine. He tastes like whiskey and smoke, the kinds of heat that singe your nerves and remind you that you’re alive.
There’s no awkwardness, no flailing, no sense of uncertainty.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
His tongue traces over my bottom lip and I part for him. I’ve never been more eager to deepen a kiss in my life. I’ve never been more lost in one, either.
I can’t feel my legs or hands. I’m too focused on our fused lips, our entangled tongues. His touch is a lightning bolt cracking through the darkness of my life.
When he pulls his lips from mine, I draw in a hungry breath of air. I’m surprised to see that it’s still thundering and pouring outside. Somehow, my world had gone quiet in the sparse few seconds of that kiss.
Something occurs to me. “W-wait…” I gasp.
He pulls back just far enough that I can see his lips glistening. “Scared, tigrionok?”
“I just realized that we don’t even know each other’s names.”
He arches one dark, thick eyebrow. “I’m—”
“No!” I blurt. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
He hesitates, breathing slowly for a moment, the lust blowing his pupils so wide open I feel like I could fall into them.
But I meant what I said. I don’t want to know his name, because if I don’t know his name, then none of this is real. It’s all a figment of my imagination and it can stay there forever. It’ll be just a dream I had, one wild night. A moment untethered in time.
“Very well,” he says at last. “No names.”
“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper, even as my hand curls around his neck again.
“And you probably won’t do it again after this,” he responds confidently. “So make this count.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you’re looking for a memory. Something that you can look back on when you’re old and say, ‘I did that. It was dangerous and stupid and reckless, but I did it anyway.’”
My eyes flare as he talks. He’s right. I’ve spent my whole life walking the line, listening to my parents, existing meekly within the confines of the box they’ve built around me.
But tonight, with him, I’m taking my power back. Because all those doubting voices at the back of my head, telling me to be careful—they’re not mine.
The real me has only two words to say: Do it.
I haul myself into the back seat. Then I grab the edges of my sports bra and pull it off over my head. It’s a half-assed striptease, clumsy and fumbling, but it doesn’t matter. His gaze is hungry all the same the moment his eyes land on my breasts.
And then he comes toward me.
It’s a marvel that a man so huge can maneuver so gracefully in such a tight space. Everything seems effortless for him. It’s the most attractive quality to me, a girl for whom everything feels like an effort more often than not.
The way he crawls on top of me takes any apprehension I might have possessed and coils it low and warm in my belly. The corded muscles in his arms ripple as he braces himself over me.
Breathe, Tay. Remember to breathe.
He cups the side of my neck. I get the sense that those hands are capable of both beautiful and terrible things, and I’m not sure which he’s about to do to me.
What does it mean if I want both?
He guides my lips back to his. In the same breath, his other hand grabs my hip. I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist and that must be what he wanted, because suddenly, we’re rolling and shifting until I wind up straddling his lap.
Not once has he stopped kissing me. His warm tongue sweeps between my lips and tangles with my own, and it’s the way he pulls the moan from me that also banishes the annoying voices from my head.
Celine’s.
Mom’s.
Dad’s.
They disappear, one by one. Until the only voice left is mine.
Do it, it says again. Do it.
I lift my hips so that he can slide down my jogging shorts.
“Fuck,” he snarls angrily. “I’ve always liked how tight these things are until now.”
I giggle deliriously as he tugs them down my legs, yanking my panties down with them. When I’m bare, he hauls me against him with another reverberating growl that sends shivers straight to my core.
Then he dips his head low and kisses a fiery trail to my breasts. Now that he has me naked and pliant in his arms, he’s taking his time to savor the taste of me.
It’s torture.
His lips are even softer than I imagined they would be. His tongue flicks and glides over my skin. Warm breath and cool air tease my nipples into painfully rigid peaks.
When he sucks one into his mouth, I buck on his lap and nearly unravel right then.
“Oh, fuck…” I gasp, letting out another wordless cry that’s immediately swallowed up by the rolling thunder above us.
I rest my chin on the top of his head as he suckles and tugs. Every pull into his mouth sends a wave of pleasure straight to the ache building between my legs. When I feel his fingers stroke my slit, my body jerks violently as electricity speeds up and down my spine.
I’ve never felt this much, and we haven’t even gotten to the actual sex part yet.
He arches back and stares at my face while he presses two fingers inside me. I’m so wet that there’s next to no pressure. Just a whole lot of soft bliss that works its way into my body and irons out all the knots I’ve been carrying around with me for the past two years.
We’re gazing into each other's eyes, which only makes this hotter. More intense. More intimate.
But it’s more than that.
It’s jarring, too.
In my (admittedly limited) experience, men tend to focus on everything below the neck when you’re sleeping together. Like they’d prefer if you were a blow-up doll instead of, like, an actual human being with thoughts and feelings and eyeballs.
But this man? This man gazes at me with an intensity that’s equal parts predatory and hypnotizing—like he can’t decide if he’s going to devour me or possess me. I’m inclined to believe “both” with the way he strokes and presses inside me, his thumb massaging until I’m on the edge of begging him for mercy.
Instead, I shatter. And it’s more, so much more, because he’s not satisfied with simply letting me ride it out on his fingers. He fists his other hand in my hair at the nape of my neck so I have nowhere to look but at him—and instead of letting me ride to my own completion, he thrusts his fingers and coaxes me to new heights.
If someone’s feelings are going to be dragged through the mud here, it won’t be his. He’s the one in control. I’m the one losing what little ground I had to begin with.
And even still…
“Fuck me.”
The words fall out of my lips like a whispered prayer. I’ve never in my life uttered those words. I’ve never even dared to consider it.
But it’s hard to be aware of the rules right now, even my own self-made ones. I feel like I’m in a suspended reality where anything goes.
I feel strong, and I almost never feel strong.
I feel confident, and I’m not a confident person.
I feel sexy, and I’ve always been scared of my own sexuality.
But not now. Not with him. Not like this.
His hands glide to my hips and raise me up. At this angle, it’s easier to rest my brow against his, and oh my god is it intimate. I more than half-expect him to push me away, but instead, he only flicks his gaze low long enough to undo his pants, pushing down the zipper to release his erection.
Our lips are only inches apart, our breathing nearly synchronized, and instead of closing the distance, he teases me by making me want it more.
I take one look at his cock and it all makes perfect sense to me. There’s no way he could be anything but confident and charismatic when he’s packing a beast like that.
“You’re gonna break me,” I whisper fearfully.
Something wild flits across his face. His eyes are a mesmerizing misty blue with deep hazel that almost glows around his irises. They’re the one part of him that betrays just how close to losing control he really is.
“I don’t break anything I have no interest in fixing,” he says as his cock rubs against my slit.
I’m still afraid. But the moment he pushes himself inside me, I no longer care.
There’s no room to be anything but alive.