“Not while professionally driving.”
That struck her as hilarious. Tuesday snorted. “No, dork. I mean, just while driving around town. Every guy has had that at least once, right?”
“I don’t think I have.”
“Really?” Tuesday thought about rolling over and showing him how much fun it could be, but that seemed like a lot of work. Plus her mouth was dry and she was really sleepy. It would be a poor show and that would defeat the point.
She wasn’t really sure what the point was, but she knew it was a good one.
“Really. And no, I don’t want you to fix that for me right now.”
Well. Fine. “Pfft. Who the hell says I was offering?” But if she was, she was damn sure he’d take it. So there.
“You’re right. You weren’t. I apologize.”
That was nice. She settled better into the seat, curling up a little on her side as he shifted gears and pulled out of the parking lot. “But you kinda want me to, don’t you?”
“In theory, yes. But in reality, it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Why, because you don’t have an erection?”
There was a beat of silence, and Tuesday’s eyes started to drift closed. But they flew open when Diesel moved her head just slightly to the left, and she felt an obstruction that was not his wallet.
“Not exactly,” he told her, his voice tight.
“Oh.” Tuesday wiggled around, getting a sense of its length—long. And its width—thick. Wow. She started to rethink her decision to not go there. Or had she really made that decision? Maybe this was just really doing what she’d wanted to do all night. Her mouth was very close to penis. It was very hard. Big.
She stroked the length of him lightly through his pants. Up and down, feeling it swell even more. It was a really nice erection.
Diesel was similarly stroking her hair, his masculine fingers surprisingly gentle as he worked his way from her roots down to the tips of her hair, petting softly. Arousal stirred to life, her panties dampening, breathing going languid and heavy. She stroked. He stroked. A slow, easy, steady rhythm that felt normal and intimate and safe.
So slow and steady that before she was even aware it was happening, Tuesday fell asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
“GET your head out of my crotch. How many times have I told you that’s rude?” Diesel nudged his dog, Wilma, out of the way and went back to the engine he was working on.
This car was his pride and joy. A 1963 Chevy driven by that year’s champion driver. It had taken a beating racing, and had fallen into disrepair as it had been passed from hand to hand, and ultimately left to rust in a garage, but Diesel was giving it life back. When he was done, it would be running, dressed in the colors and number of its original driver.
He’d been working on it for two months and he figured another month and it would be good to go. He had a mind to donate it to Tuesday Jones’s cancer benefit. It was worth a hell of a lot and there would be plenty of people in attendance who would want a classic piece of stock car racing history.
Diesel wondered how Tuesday was doing this morning. He was tempted to send her a text but realized he didn’t have her number. It wouldn’t be cool to contact Evan for it since technically this was the morning after his wedding, even if they’d been married for four months already. But he was worried about Tuesday. She was going to have a pounding headache, no doubt about it.
“Hey, kid, how’s it going?”
Diesel glanced up from under the hood to see his uncle, Johnny Briggs, strolling into his garage. “Hey, Uncle Johnny, what’s up?”
“Not much. Just thought I’d stop by on my way to the cardiologist and see what you’re up to.”
Looking down the driveway, Diesel didn’t see anyone else, but he asked, “Aunt Beth with you?”
“Nope. She’s volunteering up at the grandkids’ school this morning.”
“Everything okay with your appointment?” He had to admit, he worried about his uncle. He had been like a father figure to Diesel growing up, the closest he’d had to a positive male influence after his father had run out on his mother when he was four years old.
“Yep. Just a routine check on the old ticker after the angioplasty. So how’s the car coming along?”
Johnny stuck his head under the hood and they stared in companionable silence for a few minutes. His uncle offered a suggestion or two, which Diesel valued. But there was something his uncle wanted to say and Diesel knew it. He was just waiting for the reveal when Johnny was ready.
“So your aunt wanted me to ask you if you’re busy Saturday night.”
Diesel stood up, eyeing his uncle suspiciously. “Why?” If his uncle invited him to a boat show or something of that ilk it was one thing, but his aunt inquiring over his schedule made him nervous.
“You didn’t answer the question, son. Are you busy or not?”
Damn it. “No.” Rarely was he busy these days. His Saturday night usually involved a beer and his remote control. Living the dream, that’s what he was doing.
“There’s this thing up at the church that’s like a night at the races and Beth’s friend Jean is bringing her daughter, Ellie. There’s an extra seat at our table and Beth wants you there.”
Diesel fought the urge to groan. Ellie was the kind of marriage-hungry woman on the hunt who made his nuts shrivel up and his bank account squeal. “Johnny, I don’t want to sit with Beth’s friend Jean’s daughter, Ellie. There is nothing more awkward than an obvious set-up date with all of your parents around.”
His uncle lifted his ball cap and scratched his forehead. “That’s what I told her, but your aunt has her ideas. She means well.”
“I can find my own dates.” He just chose not to.
“Yeah? When was the last time you had a date? And hanging with Wilma here don’t count.” Johnny reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Even if she is a pretty dog, aren’t you, Wilma?”
“If I wanted a date, I could have one.” He was aware that sounded childish, but how the hell did he explain to his uncle that he was afraid to date? The last sexual encounter he’d had with a woman had ended in total deflation of his man parts when his knee had given out in the middle of banging her. He’d had to abort the mission and finish her off manually. It had been one of the single most humiliating experiences of his life and not one he was itching to repeat. “I just don’t particularly want one.”