Page 27 of Wicked Pickle

When she grabs my hand to lead me toward the mansion, I know I’m following wherever she leads.

CHAPTER 9

SYMPHONY

Idon’t know exactly what I’m doing, but I’m doing it.

I grab Diesel’s hand and lead him into the building to the side hall with the bridal suite. “There’s a dressing room. We’re done with it. No one should come in.”

We duck inside, and he pulls on our joined hands until I’m up against him. The door clicks behind us.

“So, here we are,” he says, his voice low.

The lights are out, so it’s shadowy in the large room, only the last golden rays of sunset streaming through.

I swallow. “Here we are. I owe you a kiss. You earned it. You showed remarkable restraint when Bailey walked up.”

“I did.” He presses my back against the door, like earlier, when he caught me watching the family photos. He must like that position.

I might, too.

His thumb moves to my chin, his fingers sliding along my jaw. “Decide on a location for that kiss yet?” He takes the champagne bottle away from me and sets it on a table by the door.

I haven’t been in a predicament like this in … gosh … two years?

I’ve been working. Studying. And trying Tinder and not getting anywhere. And, oh, God, his nose is buried in my neck.

“I’ve had to watch you for hours,” Diesel says. “I thought about a lot of things I could do to you.”

“You did?” My breath comes faster. “Like what?”

Oh, why did I ask that?

I feel his face shift as he smiles against my neck. “Can I show you?”

Oh, God. My voice is shaky again. “Yes.”

He tugs on the tulle wrap around my shoulders, pink to match the puffy skirt. “I wanted to take this off.”

The netting falls to the floor.

Will he undress the rest of me? What are we about to do? And why am I so excited at the prospect? My whole body is lit brighter than a neon sign.

“I wanted to kiss you right here,” he says, moving his mouth to the space above my collarbone. His lips are warm.

“That—that’s a good spot.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” He works his way along my chest. “Then into this delicious valley.” He moves down my cleavage.

My heart pounds. Is this real? I feel like I’m living in one of Marietta’s romance novels.

His finger lifts the tiny strap of the dress and shifts it over my shoulder. “This all right?”

“Y-yes.” My hands are trembling, so I grasp my skirt to keep them still. Every one of my breaths makes my chest press into his face. Heaving bosom. I get it now. I have one.

“Delicious.” He slips the other strap over my shoulder.

The dress sags slightly, but these double Ds don’t land in their current location without some serious brassiere action. It might take three people and a pair of pliers to get this one loose.

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