Diesel leaned against the side of the Silverado, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The night was quiet, heavy with desert heat and leftover exhaust. Somewhere out past the ridge, a coyote howled once and then shut the fuck up. Smart move.

He let the smoke curl from his lips, slow and easy. Everything tonight had been a mess of motion. He’d pulled up to the Junction right as Duke crashed against Sedona’s mouth. That was, honest to God, the least fucking thing he’d ever expected. 

Ever. 

And when he said ‘ever’, he meant it. 

They’d been living for years, so what the fuck had changed?

He’d sat in the car until they left, not ready to face that mess yet. Then inside the Junction—his girl—too tipsy, and Monica dressed like she was about to fuck the soul out of some poor bastard. 

Was it full Moon outside, or what?

And now both of them were here. Back home. 

He was trying to still his mind—to unwind—when the door creaked open behind him.

He didn’t need to turn to know who was there and that whatever she was about to say would make him curse at least twice internally. He knew the sound of her bare feet on the concrete. Soft, sure. An unmistakable part of his life now. 

“Diesel,” Delilah said, voice a little slurred, a lot sweet.

He looked over his shoulder. And his brain damn near short-circuited.

She was standing there in nothing but black lace and a devil’s grin. Bra, panties, and one of his shirts—half-buttoned, hanging open, sleeves rolled up. Her hair was a little messy, lips pink from whatever she’d been sipping, cheeks flushed.

“What are you doin’, baby?” he asked, voice low. Controlled. Mostly.

She padded closer, arms swinging lazily at her sides. “You’re not gonna like it.”

That got his attention. He dropped the cigarette, ground it out under his boot.

“Try me.”

She stopped a few feet from him. Tilted her head, biting her lip.

“Can we have a threesome?” she asked, dead serious. “Like… now?”

He blinked.

“…What?”

“Me. Monica. You.” She gestured loosely toward the garage. “We were just… talking. And then joking. And then it kinda stopped being a joke.”

Delilah took a step closer, real slow, as if approaching a wild animal. “It’s not a thing, like—no feelings. She’s still stuck on Duke, and I’m yours. But we were talking, and she said you’ve got a nice cock. I asked how did she know? She said you’ve fucked. Then I remembered, yeah you had. She said she’d love to fuck you again. And I said ‘I’d watch’. And she said, ‘bet you wouldn’t.’ And then I said ‘bet I would.’ And then…”

She trailed off, shrugging. Her smile was shy now.

“I just thought maybe I’d ask.”

Diesel ran a hand down his face. His skin was hot. His pulse was a fucking jackhammer. He hadn’t planned on this. Hadn’t even let the thought bloom past fantasy. 

And she knew—fucking knew—he’d agree, the goddamn minx. 

“…Where’s Monica?”

Delilah smiled wider. “Inside. On the couch. Waiting.”

He stared at her for a long second, jaw tight, mind racing through every possible version of no.

But none of them landed.

She looked up at him—she already knew the answer. She’d known it the minute the question popped into her head. 

Diesel dragged a hand down the back of his neck. “Delilah…”

“I know.” Her voice was quieter now. “You don’t do shit like this. I get it. It’s messy. It’s not us.”

He gave a humorless exhale, half a laugh. “No, baby. It’s exactly us. That’s the fuckin’ problem.”

She grinned at that—soft and wicked—and closed the last bit of space between them. Her fingers brushed his stomach through the fabric of his shirt, trailing upward, slowly. She didn’t kiss him. Just pressed her cheek to his chest for a second. Her heartbeat thudded against him, not quite in rhythm with his.

“It’s just for fun, baby,” Delilah whispered.

And god help him, she meant it. There wasn’t an ounce of insecurity in her voice. No jealousy. Just curiosity and arousal.

He swallowed hard. His hands were still at his sides, fists clenched—still holding on to a shred of fucking sanity, because this? This was the opposite of that. 

“She knows the rules?” he asked.

Delilah nodded against his chest. “She knows I’m yours. And that you’re not hers.”

“She's not gonna catch feelings?” And that was an honest concern. He knew how she got with guys. Duke was a walking testament to that. 

Shit. Duke. Would he be okay with him fucking his ex… whatever? Diesel couldn’t even narrow it down to what they had been to each other. A nice lay? A steady fuck? 

He had Sedona now. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t had Monica first. 

“Monica?” Delilah mused. “She already caught ‘em—for Duke. She’s not here for you. She's here for sex.”

He could already picture it. Delilah’s mouth. Monica’s nails. Delilah’s voice whispering dirty things in his ear while someone else’s lips were on his skin.

Diesel exhaled slowly. Looked down at Delilah. “Alright.”

She wasn’t even surprised, just grinned against his chest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I call the shots. If I say stop, we stop. If I say no, it ends. Clear?”

Delilah nodded, her smile blooming wide. “Crystal.”

He opened the door and stepped inside, pulse heavy, cock already stirring, and every muscle in his body screaming this was a terrible fucking idea.

But goddamn if he was about to back out now.

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that didn’t sit right in his chest.

Warm air and the low thump of a distant bass met him first, then the scent—smoke, whiskey, something sweet—some perfume. Maybe.

Monica was on the couch exactly where Delilah said she'd be.

She was lounging—one long leg stretched out, the other bent, foot tucked under her thigh. That tight black dress was hiked up nearly to her hips, revealing the soft dip of her inner thigh. She didn’t look up right away—just ran a finger around the rim of her glass, pretending she hadn’t heard the door.

Delilah moved past him, bare feet tapping against the hard tile floor. 

Those legs… Those fucking legs. 

She sat down beside Monica, thigh pressing into hers, and whispered something into her ear that made Monica smirk.

Diesel stayed standing.

Watching.

Waiting.

Assessing.

Thinking how bad of a fucking idea this was—and how his dick wasn’t agreeing with that sentiment.

Not one bit. 

Monica finally looked up. Her eyes met his.

“You’re standing there, looking like someone poured sour milk in your morning coffee,” she said. “You know I can fuck, Diesel.” 

He didn’t answer.

Delilah reached over and plucked the glass from Monica’s hand, took a sip, then passed it to him.

“Loosen up,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to want this.”

Was he?

Maybe.

His eyes fell to where their legs touched—bare skin against bare skin. Tan against darker tan. Monica’s fingers were toying with the hem of Delilah’s panties now, casual, like she’d done it a hundred times.

Delilah leaned over and whispered something again. Monica chuckled, biting her bottom lip.

Diesel’s jaw flexed. His cock was hard. Of course it was.

“Come here,” he said finally, his eyes on Monica. 

Monica glanced back at Delilah, and Delilah nodded. 

Monica’s red heels were left at the corner of the couch—an afterthought—and right now she was standing before Diesel, her false bravado cracking under pressure. Her gaze darted down to the ground between their feet. She looked almost coy. Like a college freshman caught fingering herself in the back row of calc, now standing before the dean. 

He took her chin, forcing her eyes up. She was beautiful. Dark, long lashes enveloped pretty green eyes, and a row of freckles ran down a cute nose, dragging the gaze to full pink lips. 

But she wasn’t ‘Lilah. 

His gaze slipped to his girl. She was still on board, her hand now casually resting between her thighs, smiling lazily but expectantly. 

Diesel’s eyes snapped back to Monica. His thumb rolled over that full bottom lip, forcing her mouth open, but not by using force. By using want. 

Monica’s mouth parted under his thumb, breath catching the edge of his skin.

Diesel stepped in closer, towering over her, close enough to smell the wine on her lips and that sweet, sinful thing he’d picked up before. Perfume.

“I’m not gonna play boyfriend,” he said, voice low. “This isn’t soft. This isn’t sweet. If we do this, you’re here for my girl’s pleasure. And mine. That’s it.”

Monica’s eyes flared—not with fear, but recognition. She nodded.

“No cuddles after,” Delilah added from the couch. “And no sleeping in our bed.”

Monica gave a little laugh. “Jesus. You two are made for each other.”

Diesel tilted her head back a little more, thumb still under her chin. “All that bein’ said, I’m not selfish. How many times do you wanna come?” 

He saw her swallow, hard, trying to keep her seductress facade up. “Depends on how generous you feelin’.” 

“Your limit’s three,” he said, knowingly. “We’ll stay with three.”

She was hesitant but eventually nodded. 

“Now take off the dress.” 

She turned her back to him and pulled the zipper down—hands purposefully dragging the moment out. The black leather peeled off her like a second skin, revealing smooth tan flesh, red lingerie, and no bra. Her hips flared as she stepped out of the dress, leaving it puddled at her feet.

She turned around.

Delilah let out a whistle. “Fuck.”

Diesel’s jaw tensed again. He still wasn’t sure if he was pissed or turned on. Maybe both. Maybe that’s what made it better.

He looked at Delilah. “Come here.”

She stood, moving toward them with that lazy confidence that only came when she knew she was wanted. Her arms slipped around Monica from behind, hands running up the girl’s stomach, over her ribs, cupping bare breasts.

Monica arched slightly into the touch, lips parting again—not for Diesel this time, but for Delilah.

“Get on your knees,” he said to Monica, stepping back just enough to give her room.

Delilah leaned in, kissing Monica’s neck while her hands stayed right where they were. “See?” she whispered. “Told you he’d want it.”

He undid the buckle of his belt, then the button, the zipper. Diesel didn’t touch himself. Just stood there, watching his girl touch someone else, stroke someone else, own someone else. It shouldn’t have made him this hard.

Delilah looked up at him, eyes dark. “You gonna let her suck your cock now, baby?”

His belt hit the floor.

Monica knelt, thighs parting instinctively. She looked up at him, eyes wide and wet. 

“You still want this?” he asked her, to be sure. Monica had a strange thing about crying mid sex—the gentler you were with her, the more she sobbed. She knew that, so she fucked. Hard. Fast. Rough. Let herself be used—you name it. Using sex as a catharsis. 

Monica nodded. “I want it rough.”

Delilah stepped closer, her eyes connecting with Diesel’s, the lust and mischief momentarily gone from her face. “Baby, I’m not sure if—”

“It’s fine,” Diesel replied to her in a low voice, his eyes still on Monica. “If it ever gets too rough, you stop it. What’s the safe word?” 

“V8,” Monica said. 

“Good girl.” Diesel shot her a small smile. 

Fucking Monica had always been… intense. Not exactly Diesel’s cup of tea. Monica didn’t want eye contact. Never had. She liked to disappear during sex—liked being just a body, no names, no faces. It wasn’t trauma. It was control, in its own weird way. And that just didn’t align with who he was, so after two or three times, they’d stopped. 

And yet now she was here again. 

“You guys, can we finally fucking continue?” Monica stirred, her eyes shifting between Diesel and Delilah behind her. “I can’t stay wet for an eternity.”

Delilah and Diesel shared a look. She nodded. 

Then he asked her, “You want me to fuck her mouth?” 

It took her a moment. She was recalibrating, letting him take the lead because he knew what Monica wanted and didn’t want—how rough her ‘rough’ really was. 

Diesel was guiding her without holding her hand, teaching her to dominate without giving up control. 

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Show me.”

That was all he needed.

Diesel stepped in close, towering over Monica, and wrapped a fist in her hair. A signal. She opened her mouth without being told.

Delilah stayed at his side, watching everything—his grip, Monica’s posture, the way Diesel angled his hips just right.

“Keep your hands behind your back,” he told Monica. “No touching.”

She obeyed.

“Open wider.”

She did.

He slid into her mouth in one long, steady thrust. No teasing. No gentle build. Her lips stretched around him, eyes watering instantly. She gagged once, then swallowed him deeper.

Diesel didn’t moan. He just breathed through his nose, steady and controlled, watching the way Monica’s throat flexed around him.

“She’s good at that,” Delilah murmured beside him.

“She’s had practice.”

Delilah’s hand slid down to her own thigh, then between them, two fingers slipping under the edge of her panties. Diesel felt her press closer, her arm brushing his side.

“Can I touch you?” she asked.

“Always.”

Her free hand slid under his shirt, nails dragging lightly across his stomach as she watched Monica choke and drool around his cock. He knew it might’ve felt jarring at first, degrading even, but Delilah adjusted quickly. She didn’t shy away from it. 

Monica gagged once more, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were glassy, but she kept them down.

Diesel pulled back slowly, letting his cock drag against her tongue on the way out. A strand of spit clung from tip to lip, glossy and obscene. She coughed, caught her breath, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Up,” he said, voice even. “Couch.”

She moved without question, standing on shaky legs. Her thighs were slick, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Delilah followed, eyes heavy-lidded.

Monica lay back across the couch, legs parting instinctively. Her lips were swollen, eyes still wet, but she didn’t look afraid. Just… cracked open. A nerve exposed to the air.

Diesel stayed standing a moment longer, taking her in. Her red panties were already damp, clinging to the shape of her cunt.

Delilah came up beside him, her head slightly tilted to the side as she took Monica in. 

He cocked an eyebrow, his hand gently running down her back. He leaned in, whispered in her ear: “Take off that shirt.” He tugged at the hem of it. “Leave the lingerie. I want to see you when I fuck her.” 

Diesel kissed her cheek, finally stripping out of his shirt. His back was already wet with sweat, but he wasn’t done yet. 

Not even close. 

Monica shot him a look. “You’re gonna take your sweet time, or are you gonna fuck me?”

Diesel dropped to his knees between her legs and hooked his thumbs in the lace. “Don’t get greedy.”

He peeled the panties down slowly, past her hips, her thighs, then tossed them aside. Her scent hit him immediately—hot, wet, a little sweet. Monica was soaked.

“Hands above your head,” he said. “Touch yourself, you lose a round.”

She obeyed, arms stretched above her. Her nipples were hard, chest rising and falling fast.

Delilah settled on the armrest, one leg on the couch, one on the ground—the shirt gone. Watching, touching herself lazily, one finger dragging slow circles over her clit, under the lace.

Diesel bent forward, licking a slow line from Monica’s entrance to her clit. She gasped, hips bucking—but didn’t reach down. Good girl.

He flattened his tongue and worked her over with practiced rhythm. Harder than he’d go with ‘Lilah. Less delicate. More purposeful. 

Her first orgasm came fast—sharp and sudden, tearing through her with a strangled noise. She almost curled forward but stopped herself, teeth sunk into her own wrist.

“One,” Diesel said.

Delilah was grinning, breathing harder now. “You always were good with your mouth.”

Diesel didn’t answer. He just stood and lined himself up.

“You want me to fuck her?” he asked Delilah, eyes never leaving Monica.

Delilah’s breath caught. She hesitated for only a moment.

“Yeah,” she said. “But don’t make it sweet. Make her feel it.”

Diesel grinned.

And then he pushed inside—one brutal thrust, bottoming out in her slick, tight heat.

Monica cried out, legs wrapping around him instinctively. He set a pace that bordered on merciless and cruel, each snap of his hips jolting her whole body. She was gasping now, trying to stay quiet, but the sound of her getting fucked was impossible to mute.

He felt sorry for Sedona and Duke, there, just behind the wall.

Delilah stood, her hand leaving her pussy, and came over. Her hand slid over Diesel’s back, nails dragging lightly down his spine.

“Fuck,” Monica breathed, nearly whimpering. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

She was close again—he could feel it in the way her cunt clutched around him.

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, driving into her harder now, grunting through clenched teeth.

And then she shattered again—louder this time.

“Two,” Delilah said, reaching for a glass of wine from the coffee table. “One more, baby.”

Monica was trembling, legs still around him, chest heaving.

“You good?” Diesel asked her, lips brushing her ear.

She nodded quickly. “More. Please. Just—more.”

He pulled out, flipped her over, and dragged her hips to the edge of the couch. Bent her forward. One hand fisted in her hair, the other guiding himself back in.

Monica was shaking, barely holding herself upright.

Her third orgasm hit like a fucking wave, full-body and violent. She cried out, legs trembling.

“Three,” Delilah whispered from somewhere behind him. “She’s done.”

Diesel didn’t slow. But he didn’t fuck Monica any deeper either. He kept it steady, controlled. His own body was wound tight, balls aching, sweat running down his back.

He still hadn’t come.

“Monica,” he said, voice low. “Tap out?”

She nodded, breathless. “Tapping out.”

He pulled out of her slowly, his hand leaving her hair. She sagged over the couch, a complete and utter mess of damp skin.

Diesel looked over his shoulder. Delilah was on the armrest again, lace of her bra pulled down, exposing the best fucking pair of breasts he’d ever seen. Her legs were still parted, thighs glistening from where she'd been touching herself. Her eyes met his.

“Come here,” he said, beckoning her forward.

She didn’t hesitate.

Delilah slid off the couch like she was being called home. She walked to him, still flushed, still wet, and Diesel grabbed her hips the second she was close enough.

“Want me to fuck you?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

She brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead. “Are you not yet spent, Cowboy?” 

He smirked, enjoyed the moment. Enjoyed the soft linger of her fingers on his forehead. 

But he wasn’t in the mood for softness. 

He spun her around and pushed her down over the same couch where Monica was still recovering. Delilah braced her hands against the cushions, ass high, looking over her shoulder with that devil’s grin. 

Diesel lined up and slammed in hard. One thrust. Deep.

Delilah gasped, back arching. He grabbed her hips and drove into her again—fast.

Monica, half-conscious, shifted just enough to look up at them. Her lips parted, eyes wide, watching Diesel take his girl like it was the only thing that mattered now.

Delilah moaned, low and filthy. “Don’t come yet,” he told him.

“‘Lilah…” A hand slid up her back, pressing between her shoulder blades. 

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

A dark chuckle ripped out of his chest. 

Haven’t fucking earned it? 

“Make me come first, baby…” she said, her words mixing with gasps and disappearing in moans. 

Diesel gritted his teeth and leaned over her, pressing her deeper into the couch. His hand slipped between her thighs, fingers finding her clit.

“Keep those hands where they are,” he growled against her ear.

Delilah moaned, desperate now. He was already deep, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust, but now his fingers were circling in tandem.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he said. “And you’re gonna do it loud.”

She whined, the sound caught between a sob and a laugh. “Fuck—baby—”

He moved faster, hips slamming into her.

“I want you to scream my name,” he said, breath hot against the back of her neck. “Let her hear you.”

Delilah bit the cushion under her hands, knuckles white, legs trembling.

Monica was watching from the other end of the couch, eyes heavy, breathing shallow—but still captivated. She hadn’t seen this Diesel. This wasn’t casual. This was devotion in motion.

“Say it,” he grunted. “Say who owns you.”

“You,” Delilah gasped. “Fucking—you—Jesse Ray—”

He pinched her clit and slammed into her so hard the couch actually shifted.

Jesse Ray. 

Delilah shattered.

Her body locked, her voice broke, and she came like a goddamn explosion—legs shaking, cunt clenching so tight around him he nearly saw stars.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hissed, losing it.

One more thrust.

And then he came, buried inside her, mouth open in a silent groan, hand gripping her hip like she might float away if he let go.

Monica blinked—she couldn’t believe what the fuck she’d just seen.

Delilah finally collapsed forward, body spent, cheek against the cushion.

Diesel didn’t move for a long moment. He needed a moment—a breath. A fucking reset.

Then he leaned down, kissed the top of her spine.

“Haven’t earned it my sweet ass,” he whispered, smacking hers.