DIESEL POV
I’m driving towards the nearest restaurant, the idea of the massage parlor is still pissing me off.
$1,800 a month so some horny bastard could moan while she worked out his “knots.”
It was definitely a joke if I was even pretending to agree to that.
Picturing it alone is annoying: Daisy in some tight little uniform, her small hands sliding over some sweaty executive’s back, his eyes closed while he imagined those same hands going lower. The thought made my grip tighten on the handlebars until the leather creaked. No f*****g way. Not while I was breathing.
She was pressed against my back, arms wrapped around my waist. Her helmet rested between my shoulder blades, and every small shift of her body reminded me how soft she felt under my hands this morning, and definitely no f*
