Page 67 of Wicked Pickle

He pushes the skirt out of the way, one hand sliding between my breast and the desk to squeeze me.

I hear the jingle of his belt and the tear of the condom wrapper. He leans over my back. “For the record, I’d fuck you like this even if your class was watching.”

Oh, God, now I’m seeing it, the students in their seats. The professor sputters in the corner at our abomination. It makes me even more wet.

His body presses against me from behind, then he shoves his way inside.

I let out a low squeal, and Diesel’s hand tightens around my breast, pinching the nipple.

Do I like that? I think I do, feeling another rush of wetness. I’ve learned more about myself in three days than in the last twenty-six years.

“I want it hard. So fucking hard,” I tell him.

And he gives it, holding one of my hips and slamming into me.

The desk scoots forward with each thrust, scraping the floor as we go.

I feel wild and high, so high, like I’ve taken a hit off celestial adrenaline. I could orgasm from that alone, but then Diesel reaches around to finger me while he works me from behind.

Tears squeeze from my eyes. I want this constantly. I want it again, even before this one ends. I want to fuck in every room, in the stairwell, on the front steps. I want to experience every crazy, salacious, wild thing with him. I want to shock people?—

I start to come again, this one dark and heavy and deep, like it’s spiraling from an abyss. I squeeze my eyes shut, surrendering to the storm.

My legs shake, my body quivers. None of that matters. The wave rolls over me like I’ve fallen into night. I spin in space, thrumming with the universe, vaguely hearing sounds I’m making, words Diesel is saying, but mostly, just riding the high.

It takes its time. There is only energy, sparkling and complete, like I’ve finished painting a picture, and there is nothing left but to love it.

Then it recedes, and the edge of the desk presses hard against my thighs. My cheek is flat against the top. I’m clutching either side, holding on like it’s the door in Titanic. I will not let go.

Diesel has both arms around my waist, pressed between my body and the hard desk. He’s gone still, breathing against my back.

This part is physically uncomfortable with the hard desk beneath me, but I don’t want to move. I want to seize thismoment of aftermath since the orgasmic one is already slipping away like an ocean wave retreating from the shore.

“You all right?” Diesel’s voice rumbles through my bones.

“Yeah.” I close my eyes to the window light. I want to sleep here, caught up in him. I regret leaving him last night. I want to return to that bed and its tight, smooth covers and never go outside.

He pulls away. I have to push myself to stand. Everything is shaky.

I reach behind me to fasten the bra, but I never do it that way, and I can’t get the ends together. I’m a fasten-in-front-and-turn-it girl.

“I’ll get that.” Diesel lifts the back of my shirt and tugs the hooks into the loops. “Turn around.”

I do, and he buttons my shirt slowly and carefully like he’s the designer admiring his work.

I lift my head to watch him. He has tiny creases around his eyes. His gaze meets mine, and when he smiles, my legs get all wobbly again. What is it with this man? And how can I keep him?

That’s impossible. I’ve already gotten more than I expected, than anyone thought I could.

I step away and bend down to snatch up my panties. I can’t seem to make myself put them on after they’ve been on a classroom floor, so I stuff them in my backpack. I’ll have to be careful walking outside in this skirt.

“You leaving those off?” Diesel asks, and I catch the hitch in his voice.

There might be one way to hang on to him. He does seem hot for me.

I have to be bold. “I’ve decided not to wear them anymore.”

His throat bobs. “Ever?”

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