Page 46 of Wicked Pickle

Diesel grabs my shoulders and shoves me onto his lap, his hand on my head.

My nose grinds into his crotch. I shift my head so I can breathe. The steering wheel brushes against my forehead.

The road is rough, and I bounce against his zipper, feeling every seam and stitch. I’m pretty sure my ear is on his junk. I can only see his legs ending in boots, one on the gas pedal.

He reaches over my back to shift gears.

“Stay down,” he says. “Quite a few are out front.”

I hold my breath. I can’t see Marietta. I assume she’s still folded over.

We lurch onto a crunchy surface, cruising slowly. My shirt rides up my belly, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m afraid to move.

Diesel’s arm rests on my side. A bump causes his arm to touch my bare skin. I feel a jolt of electricity as we connect.

He must notice because the bulge near my jaw twitches. This sends another flash of heat through me. I imagine what I could do if Marietta weren’t here, unzipping these jeans, turning my head.

I’m dying to see the things I didn’t get to last night, parts of him I only felt through his suit.

The truck jerks forward, and his fingers graze my exposed belly. He trails his touch along my skin, and fire licks through me.

The ride gets smoother. We must be on the highway.

I don’t want to get up. I want him to keep touching me, to feel his reaction against my cheek.

But Marietta asks, “Are we past them?”

“Yeah,” Diesel says. “We’re on the road.”

I feel her shift next to me. I guess I have to sit up next.

I push against his thigh to lift my body up. The long dark ribbon of highway spreads out before us, dotted with random houses.

“Where are we going?” Marietta asks.

“My place,” Diesel says.

My heart speeds up. Another piece of Diesel will open up to me. I’ll know where he lives.

Maybe I’m not mad about Marietta flashing the bikers after all. Of course, she’s with us, so there’s only so much that can happen.

We drive for a while, almost half an hour. Marietta leans her head against the window, eyes closed. Those shots are knocking her out.

I feel mine, too, but it’s happy and light, like I drank bubbles.

“She all right?” Diesel asks.

“Marietta doesn’t drink a lot. She’s feeling those shots.”

He grunts. “Every time I’ve seen her, she’s been drinking.”

“It’s been a weird few nights.”

I glance over at my friend. I think she’s asleep.

“I should apologize for calling her a wild woman.”

“Oh, no.” I straighten my tank top, which migrated while lying on Diesel’s lap. “She liked it.”

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