Page 53 of Wicked Pickle

So, why am I a nervous puddle?

“Come here.” His voice is low like the rumble of his motorcycle.

My body revs up just hearing it.

I cross the space between us, ready to say something clever to diffuse my anxiety.

But I don’t get a chance. Diesel pulls me against him in a swift, inescapable movement.

His body is a wall of muscle that I melt into. His hands slide to the outside of my thighs and lift me so my legs straddle his waist.

I could lean backward and hold myself away from him, but I don’t. Instead, I sink against his chest, my hands wrapped around his neck as I hold on for dear life.

His mouth lands on mine, and the same rush as last night at the wedding crashes over me.

He holds me against him like I weigh nothing, as if I’m starring in a sexy movie where the music crescendos and the couple comes together as though it’s always been inevitable.

He tastes of pizza and beer, our shared meal. Our tongues find each other, the dizzy sensation of falling into him feeling exactly right.

He walks us down the hall. I want to see his place, unravel more of the real Diesel, Dean Sawyer, in how he lives.

But no lights go on. We enter a space darker than the living room, the hall lamp barely penetrating. He closes the door and let’s go of one of my legs for a moment to lock the door.

Right, Marietta. No surprises.

I close my eyes as we fall, me backward, him over me. We land on a bed, but I can tell from the taut covers below me that it’s made up military style, the kind you can bounce a quarter on.

He kisses me more thoroughly now that he’s in control, grasping my jaw in his hand and holding me exactly how he wants me. I’m drowning in the intensity of his lips, the pressure of his grip, and the weight of his body on mine. Nobody has commanded me like this, taken me over, insisted on getting what he wants.

But with Diesel, it makes me wild for him, desperate to please him and relinquish everything I have. I don’t need to be strong or make the decisions or ponder any moves.

Someone else is in charge, finally. It’s not all on me.

His grip moves to my throat and squeezes. I think I’ll panic, but I don’t, surrendering to his strength and power. Just when I’m about to gasp for breath, he releases me and pulls his face away a mere inch. “Yes or no to that?” he asks.

“Yes,” I breathe, feeling the rightness of it, the complete submission in that one word a relief. There’s a letting go in saying it, a relinquishment of my shield, my barriers, my fear.

He growls in response and squeezes my neck again, his mouth taking over mine. I see stars after a moment, but he breathes air into me as though he is the only reason I survive.

I feel high as the air returns. So, this is what it is like to live on the edge. Maybe it’s a need I share with my sister. I gulp back a sob for her. I understand addiction for the first time. I can’t need this. I can’t give up everything for it.

But I have it now. I can take this hit tonight.

His hand leaves my throat to move down my body. Air cools my belly as the tank top lifts. He breaks the kiss to drag the shirt over my head.

I suck in a breath, the dark room swimming with shards of color. Diesel rains kisses down my jaw and collarbone, tugging down the bandeau bra to take a breast fully into his mouth.

He groans around my flesh as if he’s feasting after a long period of hunger. He twists the bandeau like a vise around my ribs, but it doesn’t tear, just stretches to accommodate his grip.

“I’m going to eat you alive,” he says, shifting to kneel over me so he can unzip my pants. “I remember the taste.”

Oh, shit, here we go again.

He drags my jeans down my legs, knocking off the one remaining shoe that survived the fall onto the bed.

He bites his way down my thigh and knee as he tosses the jeans aside and goes for the panties.

This time, he doesn’t rip them but yanks them out of his way. He presses both of my thighs up and wide, licking long and deep between them.