Page 80 of Wicked Pickle

I can’t argue, flooded with the need for what comes next like an addict wanting a hit. The edges of my skirt tickle my calves as he works me, plunging deeply, curling to that spot he already knows so well.

I cry out against his mouth, then pull my face away to bury against his shoulder. I muffle the sounds against the leather as my body clamps down on his hand, juggernauts of pleasure cascading over me.

He goes still, letting me come down. I clutch his shoulders, turning my head to rest my cheek on the dampness of the leather. My breathing slows, and the ache in my calves reminds me I’ve been standing on tiptoe.

I’m going to feel that tomorrow.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says, withdrawing his fingers. “You ready to eat?”

I glance back at my door. I might be ready to keep going. Who needs food when you have Diesel?

But he takes my hand and leads me down the stairs.

Dinner it is.

CHAPTER 26

DIESEL

Merrick and I stand behind the bar on one of those rare lulls where everybody has a drink, nobody’s getting in a fight, and it feels pretty fine to own an establishment like the Leaky Skull.

Tonight’s live band is less thrashing than usual, and we can make out a word or two of the lyrics here and there.

Vicki’s actually taking orders for once.

It’s all the usual crowd. Two-Shit and his woman, Stoney, Low Joe, Chain. The whole Wild Hair MC, about thirty of them in leather cuts even though it’s pushing ninety degrees.

And a good contingent of military types, some in fatigues. I like this. The difference between the vets and the bikers is in the posture, the manner of dress, and the haircuts, for sure.

But they have a lot in common. They laugh loudly but not often, defaulting to something more serious once the joke’s over. They scan the room without even thinking about it, looking for a threat or the stirrings of one. They don’t relax.

Two-Shit sidles up the bar. “You two look like jacked-up gargoyles,” he says, slapping the counter. “Get me a whiskey and a shot of rum for my woman.”

I turn and pull bottles while Merrick reaches above the bar for glassware.

“Rocks?” I ask to fuck with him because I know he takes it neat.

“Do I look like fucking Double-O-seven to you?” Two-Shit asks. “Don’t answer that. I’m way more of a badass.”

I pour the whiskey and slide it over to him, then fill the shot. “There you go.”

“I’ll settle up. I got a hard-on that isn’t going to fuck itself.” He shoves a wad of cash at me.

Jake takes it and heads to the till. I always prefer a degree of separation between me and the money changing hands if I can help it. Some of these men have shot people for less than shortchanging them, but I can intervene with more ease when I’m the third party.

Jake gives Two-Shit his change. The front door opens, and I know before looking that trouble has walked in. Everybody feels it.

“Well, damn,” Merrick mutters. “I’ll handle it.”

I turn to look. Marietta crosses the bar, timid and unsure. Symphony isn’t with her. She’s come alone.

This might be worse.

Merrick hops over the bar to approach her. “All right. Come with me right now before you cause any trouble.”

I yank my phone from my pocket.

Marietta notices. “Please don’t text Symphony I’m here,” she cries. “She’ll be so mad. She told me to check to make sure I wasn’t banned, but I didn’t.”