Page 118 of Wicked Pickle

The room becomes a whirl as he rocks forward and tosses me onto one of them.

“I’m a sack of potatoes,” I say with a laugh. “Just fling me where you want me.”

“Don’t talk, potato,” he says, already pushing my suit jacket off my shoulders. “Just let me peel your outsides.”

I drop my shoes from my fingers over the edge of the bed. “Eeuuwww!” I smack his shoulder even as he tosses the pieces of my suit onto the other bed.

His tongue makes its way up the inside of my thighs. “Mmm. Salty potato.”

“Okay, we’re doing this in the shower if you’re going to talk about my sweaty thighs.”

“Great idea.” He lifts me off the bed and rapidly strips off my bra and panties. “Last one in is a rotten potato.”

He takes off for the open door of the bathroom. I shriek and leap from the bed, catching his back as he tries to go through.

He snatches my legs, and I end up ducking through the door, riding him piggyback style.

“I won,” he said. “Loser turns on the water.”

“Fine.”

He sets me down, and I bend over to figure out the controls to the shower.

Diesel drops his board shorts onto the floor.

I’m puzzling out which way is hot or cold when I feel his cock against my butt.

“Not in the shower yet.” I twist the handle and push the button to move the water from the spigot to the shower head.

“That’s all right.” His hands move everywhere, waist to breast to belly, reaching around to finger my clit.

I suck in a deep breath. Steam fills the room.

“Loser potato is rinsing off.” I slide the plexiglass door to the end with the controls, leaving the back side open.

He releases me to let me inside.

The water courses down my body, washing away the stress of the day, my first shift at the federal office, hearing from Greta, having to finish out the day, and driving to the beach.

Tomorrow, I have both class and a half-day of work, but I can think about that on the drive home.

For now, there’s Diesel, stepping in beside me and sliding the door closed.

My hair melts out of its updo, and I pull the pair of pins holding it in place and set them on a soap dish.

“We should have done this before,” Diesel says, his mouth following the path of the water down my collarbone, along the swell of a breast, then taking in a nipple.

I press one hand against the tile wall to steady myself. “Today was my first day at the new job.”

He pauses. “You got the job?”

“I did. My friend Mina and I both work at the federal building.”

“That’s great. So, you really can take on that permit office from the inside.” He grasps a breast in his hand and lifts it to his mouth.

“Possibly.” The word is lost in the onslaught of need crashing over me. This is what I’ve missed these last two weeks. Diesel. His ardor. His adoration. I realize how close those two words are. Same root, I assume, then my mind is erased as Diesel kneels, his mouth traveling down my body.

My fingers find a metal bar on the wall and hold on for dear life as his tongue slips between my legs exactly like he did that first time at Bailey’s wedding.

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