Page 79 of Wicked Pickle

“Oh, shit, he’s here.” I jump up, taking one more look in the mirror on the back of my closet door.

“You look perfect,” Jenna says, snatching up her backpack. “We’ll make sure to leave in case you don’t make it to the restaurant at all.” She pulls on Marietta. “Come on.”

“Okay, okay.” Marietta picks up her purse. “You two have fun.”

When I open the door, Diesel is there. He’s a hybrid of the two ways I’ve known him, dress pants like the wedding, but a tight black shirt under a leather vest. And the skull chain.

His dark hair is GQ perfect, a thick wave across his forehead. His beard is trimmed to an edgy scruff. He smells divine, like a forest.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

Jenna scoots by us. “Don’t mind us! We’re leaving!”

Marietta pauses. “Compliment her hair. We spent an hour on it.” She follows Jenna out.

We wait until they’re down the open corridor and descending the metal stairs.

“So,” Diesel says. “About your hair.”

I shake my head. “It’s all fine. Let’s go.” I pull the door closed and lock the deadbolt.

“I’m just saying, the helmet might crush it.”

I pause. “You brought a motorcycle?”

“I did. Two helmets. Thought you might want a ride.”

“I do.” I’ve been dying for this.

“But the hair.”

“Who cares about the hair?”

He looks down at my dress. “You’ll have to bundle up that skirt.”

“Will do.” I hesitate. “Or should I change into pants?”

“Nah. People do it all the time.” He gestures to the stairs. “After you.”

We make it to the first step when I feel a tug on my arm. I turn to him.

“Maybe wait one sec.” His voice is low and growly.

“Yes?”

He presses me against the wall. “I want to take the edge off first.”

“The edge—” He silences me with his mouth, his lips teasing, then getting more forceful. His tongue slips inside, running across mine.

His arms circle my back, drawing me against him. Everything responds to him, heat flooding my chest, my belly, pooling between my legs.

I can feel him hard against me. We are so hot for each other. I didn’t know it could be this way between two people. Certainly not again and again.

He reaches for a breast and grips it hard in his hand. I feel slick and wonder if I shouldn’t go back for panties after all. But then his hand is sliding up my leg, fingers pressing inside me.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he says against my mouth. “I’m going to get you off, then we’ll get dinner.”