Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,43

and her serene, blissed-out face.

Her hair falls behind her in a cascade, almost brushing the table.

This is sweeter than I could have possibly imagined.

I jerk open the pants and slide a hand beneath her ass to lift her. I tug the camos down to her knees and slip a hand against the sweet heat between her legs.

Her panties are pale peach, almost the color of her skin, silky and warm.

I slide along the outside, pressing my middle finger into the fold.

She sucks in a breath.

I don’t have time to unlace these Army boots, so I jerk the pants to her ankles and spread her knees.

The wispy panties are easy to shove aside. I slide first one, and then two, fingers into her body.

Her back arches and those gorgeous breasts thrust into the air.

I reach up with my free hand to massage first one than the other, as I work her down below.

She writhes against my hand, her belly flexing, her eyes closed.

I feel like a crazy man, shirtless in the kitchen of my own deli, a mostly naked woman grinding against my hand on the mixing table.

But it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. Nova is so outrageously alive. She doesn’t care about anything but this connection we have.

I’m drowning in her.

I bend down and jerk aside the panties. I lower my head, breathing against the soft pink of her.

Nova lets out a long, heady exhale in anticipation.

And then I’m in, my face pressed tight to her skin, my tongue sliding along her folds. My thumb circles the nub of her clit.

Her body clenches around me, her thighs brushing my ears.

Her hips move with me, and we become one motion, my face and mouth and lips and tongue working in harmony with her thighs and clit and the sweet heat rising in her body.

Her muscles begin to shudder, and I groove with her, giving exactly what she needs, until her voice begins to cry out. “Jason. God. Jason.”

I hold onto her, maintaining our fierce connection, my tongue fluttering.

Her body quivers, and she lets out a careening cry. Her breathing slows, and she falls back on the table, her elbow bumping one of the bowls. I catch it before it clatters to the floor.

She stares at the ceiling, her hair falling off the other side of the table. I want to imprint this image of her in my mind, her gorgeous body laid out on stainless steel, her most sensitive parts pressed against my cheek, still slightly trembling.

I want more of her. All of her.

Every day.

I know I have things to tell her.

I know I have a confession to make.

But that will have to wait for another time.

Because right now, there’s no way I’m going to put this absolute perfection at risk.

20

Nova

Working next to Jason after that morning’s moment on the mixing table is pure torture.

I don’t know what came over me. Or him.

Everything is so crazy.

Each time we glance at each other, our foolish grins have to be so huge that everybody knows what we’ve been up to.

And even though I need to finish the bread—and open the register, and tell the crew where to go, and how to set up, and what our goals are for the day—all I can think about is when I can get them all out of here so I can be alone with Jason again.

Because that moment on the mixing table was hot.

And I want more.

Jason and I work side-by-side, prepping pickles for an afternoon order when Lamonte comes into the kitchen with an empty cheese vat. “Look at the two of you stuffing pickles like you were born to do it.”

I glance at Jason and catch his side-eye.

I’m so high from this morning, I can’t stop my words. “I’ve been meaning to teach him the art of the perfect pickle placement.”

A strangled sound comes from Jason’s throat.

Lamonte pauses on his way to the fridge. “You haven’t taught him how to do it before now?”

“Nope,” I say, flashing hot with mischief. “I was waiting until the right moment, when I knew his pickle work was worthy.”

Jason’s shoulders shake slightly. He’s trying to hold it together. He manages to say, “The salt is almost out,” and heads to Bertha.

Lamonte scoots close. “Is it just me or do I sense some real pickle action happening?”

“He’s finally been here long enough to tease,” I say.

“Hazing,” Lamonte says. “I love it. You doing okay?”

“Never better.” I keep my eyes on the pickles I’m scooping out to prepare