Legs (One Wild Wish, #1)

by Kelly Siskind

  How everything had fit inside was a mystery. “Remind me to bring you if I get stuck on a deserted island.”

  She sifted through pepper spray, a few tubes of cream, small scissors, tape, paper, a whistle, Band-Aids, thread and a needle, mini flashlight, batteries, Advil…

  I’d never understand the relationship between a woman and her purse.

  I held up what looked like a bell. “Is this in case you lose your voice, the whistle breaks, and you need to hail a cab?”

  She cackled, sharp and abrupt, the sound infectious as always. “It’s a bear bell. You know, in case grizzlies invade San Francisco and I need to ward them off. Always best to be prepared.”

  When I chuckled, she added, “It’s my mother’s fault. She gives me all this stuff, worried I’ll rip a skirt and have to repair it, or that I’ll get kidnapped. Or aliens might land, and we’ll discover they can be killed with cortisone cream.” She held up three tubes.

  “Seems plausible,” I said drily. “But why carry it around? Just tell her you don’t need the stuff.”

  She pulled a Swiss Army knife from the pile and played with the attachments, opening and closing the corkscrew. “I know it’s silly. I’m twenty-seven. I shouldn’t do what my mother says or care what she thinks. It’s just, family’s important to me. Since my dad died, my mother’s anxiety has gone a bit nuts. If carrying this crap calms her, what’s the harm?” She passed me the knife, tossed her phone next to mine, and re-stuffed her purse.

  “It’s nice that you care about her,” I said.

  It’s also why I’d lied to her the other day.

  I busied myself cutting the foil and twisting the corkscrew, guilt coiling with the movement. I shouldn’t have lied to Rachel, but if I’d told her the reason I’d joined the contest was to leak my family’s deceit, an act that would sabotage their winery, she’d have shut me down. Family was everything to her. I’d have to tell her eventually. If she stopped fighting our pull and things moved forward, there couldn’t be secrets. But she’d already been searching for excuses to cut me off. No point handing her the knife.

  The cork eased out with a quiet pop, and Rachel clapped like a kid about to inhale cupcakes. She held out the glasses, and the golden liquid sloshed up the sides as I poured.

  I loved the ritual of wine. The dance of man and nature—vines tended, grapes crushed, fermentation coaxing the fruit into greatness, and this. The moment of decision. Pass or fail.

  Good, bad, or perfect.

  I smelled the cork and Rachel did the same. Next we swirled the glasses, breathing in their bouquets. I didn’t want to sip mine yet. I preferred watching her lips touch the crystal, the flush of her cheeks and pleasure in her eyes as she swallowed.

  “Holy shit” were the first words she managed. Then, “Like, holy shit. My mouth just had an orgasm.” She inhaled, taking in the sundrenched pond and blue, blue sky. “It tastes like this place.”

  I resisted the urge to taste the wine on her lips, instead sipping from my glass. It really was a mouthgasm. “Lemon peel,” I said, the first taste on my palate.

  She took another sip and shook her head. “Lemon meringue.”

  Always the competitor. I swished my next taste, and there, just there, was the candied sweetness she noted. “Apricot marmalade,” I said, then we alternated suggestions.

  “Chamomile.”

  “Brioche.”

  “Green apple.”

  “Quince.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Quince? Nope. More apple than quince.”

  “Shall we wager?”

  She traced circles on her knee, scenting her wine periodically. “What’s on the table?”

  I could have backed off, not pushed her to drop this charade and admit she was falling for me, but I was only digging myself deeper. Better to force the issue than wind up at a tattoo shop a month from now, covering the pain left in her wake. “A sleepover.”

  She nearly spilled her wine. “If I’d dropped this on the blanket, it would have been grounds for murder.”

  “I’d like to see that stand up in court.”

  She clutched her glass to her chest. “Your house or mine?”

  I picked up a square of dark chocolate and let it melt on my tongue. “I’m not picky.”

  She looked at me, then at the wine, her gaze darting back and forth again. “Fine. Sleepover. My place.”

  I’d have expected her to suggest mine, a location she could leave on a whim. Hers was even better. I’d make the wakeup so good she’d want to stay indoors all week.

  I opened the quince spread and dipped my finger in it, bringing the jam to her mouth. “Want a lick?”

  Her doe eyes flashed and she scooted closer, the board of delicacies between us. “Don’t mind if I do.” She parted her lips and took my finger in, rolling her tongue around as she sucked, releasing me with a drag of her teeth. And, fuck. My dick lengthened, jealous of my goddamn finger.

  As she savored the jam, she repeated my move, dipping her finger in and placing the quince on my tongue. I groaned, the tease of her and the added sweetness sending my mind to her straddling my face and rocking her hips. I got harder. With a final lick and kiss, I released her finger. We sipped the Chardonnay next, savoring its complexity.

  She huffed and dropped her head back. “You’re right, of course. I taste the quince.”

  “I liked it better on your skin,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I bet you did.”

  I poured more wine, the two of us drinking and eating, alternating bites, talking about everything and nothing. One hour passed. Then two. I admitted I sang in my school choir. She confessed her teenage love for NSYNC, complete with posters on her wall. She grilled me about my rise to Master Sommelier, and I relived every detail, another reminder I was an idiot for denying that part of myself.

  “I envy you,” she said.

  I moved the remaining food aside and pulled her bare feet closer, the wine and conversation casting a lazy spell. “Because my life circled the drain and I work at a dive bar?”

  She kicked my thigh. “No. Because even if you’re taking a break, you know who you are. You wanted to become a Master Sommelier, and no matter the hours or how hard it was, you went after it. You had a path.”

  A path that had led me to a messed-up place, but she was talking about her life, not mine. “What was the job you quit, again? Before the contest?”

  “Loan officer, which basically meant I was a telemarketer. Constant cold calling, trying to convince people to borrow money. It was soul sucking.”

  “And before that?”

  “Thai massage.”

  “And before that?”

  She sipped the last of her wine and placed the glass on its side. “You’ll make fun of me.”

  I lay my empty glass next to hers and pulled her foot toward me. “Now I need to know.” I dug my thumbs into her arch, steady rhythm, eliciting a hum from her.

  She leaned back on her hands. “I can’t tell you. It’s ridiculous.”

  I released her foot. “My hands are cramping. Not sure I can continue this massage.”

  She grumbled, then huffed out a breath. “Fine. Tattoo artist. I wanted to be a tattoo artist. I never followed through, but that was the plan.”

  I gawked at her. Walking into a shop to find Little Miss Proper at a station, tattoo gun in hand, would have been quite the sight. “But you don’t have a stitch of ink.”

  “First, get back to the massage.” She kicked my thigh, and I complied. “Second, I do have ink.”

  My thumbs froze. “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “In case you weren’t aware, Sunshine, I’ve explored every inch of your skin. If you had a tattoo, I would have seen it. Unless you got something in the past four days, in which case, you better undress right the fuck now.” Tattoo or not, getting her naked was sounding better and better. The perfect dessert.

  Color bloomed on her cheeks. “It’s on my hip. When I
told Gwen my new job plan, she said I couldn’t ink people without knowing how it felt. She forced me into a shop.”

  My eyes roved over her, picturing the freckled skin below her yellow dress. No way did she have a tattoo. “And?”

  “And I’d drawn an image. I mean, the only reason I’d considered tattooing as a career was because I could draw and didn’t have to do more school. So I drew this really beautiful anchor for my dad—he had a boat and loved fishing.” She smiled at the memory, a fleeting thing that squeezed my heart. “The stencil was on, the gun buzzed, but I have a pretty low pain threshold.”

  “This is too good,” I said, sensing where the story was headed. I crawled over her, until she was on her back, my knees on either side of hers. I grabbed the bottom of her dress and lifted. “Keep going, Sunshine.”

  Her throat bobbed in a long, slow slide. “He did one mark, and I screamed bloody murder. I flew off the table, created a scene, and ran from the shop. Gwen, the instigator, ran after me, doubled over with laughter.”

  I would have paid good money to see that, but I needed my eyes on her skin. “Which side?” She pointed to her left, and I pushed up her skirt. Above her skimpy underwear a tiny mark decorated her hip, nothing more than a pinhead. “I thought this was a birthmark.”

  “Nope. I ride motorcycles and I’m inked, like the badass I am.”

  Badass and cute as hell. I gave the tattoo a kiss, then planted another one below the white lace. Then one on her inner thigh. My dick throbbed, the day nothing but an aphrodisiac. I could have slipped her underwear down and dragged my tongue up her pretty little pussy, but finding out why she was so lost was important. Rachel was important.

  She shifted restlessly, and I moved up, caging her shoulders with my hands. “Why so many jobs?”

  Her eyelids were heavy with lust, but she said, “Because I don’t know who I am.”

  It came out softly, a whisper on the breeze. I lowered my voice, too. “You’re a girl with a wild side she’s afraid to explore, and you need wine as much you need oxygen. I’ve seen it before, the look you get when you swirl a glass, right before you take that first sip. It’s what you’re meant to do. Not some stupid contest and serving at restaurants. Being a part of the process. That’s where the magic is. Why not explore that?”

  A squirrel scurried up the willow tree, its noisy chatter drawing our attention. Rachel kept her focus there. “I got into wine after my dad died. Never considered it more than a hobby. As my interest grew, I looked into it. Checked out the requirements to be a winemaker.” Her left cheek hollowed, probably from biting it. A habit when she was stressed. “It’s daunting, starting over. It would take years, and I’d probably have to move back home, when relying on myself makes me feel strong and independent.”

  Her gaze drifted to my hand and up my arm, landing on my face. Her brown eyes glazed with sadness. “My parents paid for school for my brother and me, and I ask for things from time to time, but letting my mom support me now doesn’t sit well. I don’t want to go backward. And it’s like”—she wrinkled her nose as if her words scented the breeze with sourness—“each time I fail at something, I’m disappointing my dad. He had nothing and worked hard to build a life for us. He believed I’d be a success. So it’s like he’s watching me steamroll through life, shaking his head.”

  This woman. So honest and so good and desperate to please everyone around her, gone and alive. She needed to focus on herself, though. Be the woman she was meant to be, even if it meant sucking up her pride. “Not following your dreams, for whatever reason, is the only thing that would be a failure. And not exploring yourself is criminal. For instance, when I do this”—I placed my hand on her ribs, over her dress, my thumb grazing the swell of her breast—“what are you hoping I do next?”

  Pupils blown wide, she tried to wriggle lower, get my hand to move, but I held firm.

  “Do you want it slow and sweet, or rough and hard?” I asked. “I could spend an hour kissing and sucking your breasts, or I could grab your tit and take your nipple between my teeth. Either will make me a happy man, but what do you want?”

  The rise and fall of her chest quickened, and her throat bobbed. “I want it rough. I like when you bite. I like when you pull my hair.”

  Her words spilled out, each one chasing the next, and Jesus. To hear her say it, ask for me to push her boundaries? That level of trust tugged at my primal instinct to call her mine. Protect her. Learn every lick and touch that would make her buck.

  It also sent a punch of lust to my groin.

  I nudged her knees apart, and my hips fell on hers. My erection dug into the valley between her thighs. The thrust that followed had her arching her back, and I squeezed her tit. She gasped, short and sharp, fueling my desire. All I wanted was her. Those incoherent sounds. To know I was taking her places she’d never been.

  Leaning on an elbow, I shoved her dress above her bra, my jeans thick and rough against her lace underwear. Exactly how she liked it. I didn’t unclasp her bra, didn’t have the patience. Instead I tugged the cups down, and her breasts pushed up, small and perfect, light pink nipples puckered in tight buds.

  I fucking loved her tits. And she loved it wild, like me. I squeezed and licked and bit and sucked, while grinding against her. Her fingers dug into my back. My thighs were on fire. She writhed under me, one hand tangling with my hair, forcing our lips together. The kiss wasn’t pretty. It was need and urgency and hunger. It was the pressure of our lives and all we wanted but weren’t sure we could have.

  It was us.

  I couldn’t wait. The urge to slam into her had me undoing my belt buckle and shoving my jeans past my ass. She shimmied out of her underwear, and then I was in her, all that tight heat beckoning me closer, as though I had a home. A place in Rachel’s life. Her bra was below her tits, the straps of her dress down her shoulders, my jeans at my knees. My hips slammed into hers—hard, sharp, greedy thrusts. She met me each time. I wanted her messy, letting go of her inhibitions. Taking for herself.

  “God, Jimmy.” Her face was a display of sensual abandon, her nails on my ass, forcing me deeper.

  Hell yes.

  “You’re an animal,” I growled. “Exactly how I like you. So fucking hot.”

  An animal who pushed a hand up my shirt, found a nipple piercing, and gave it a twist. Heat shot down my spine, my orgasm building. With each thrust, I rubbed against her, pulling out far enough for my barbell to tease her opening and then slamming tight. Harder. Rougher. It felt too good. She felt too good. Dammit if I wasn’t losing my heart to her.

  The thought caught in my chest, tangled and twisted, driving my movements. She was on the brink, her pussy clamping around my cock, and I shot off like a rocket. Her spasms followed, both of us riding the wave.

  Something crossed her face then, a softening of her eyes, moisture gathering in the corners. Her lips parted, like she was about to speak. Instead she swallowed, and her expression dimmed—her internal light flickering, its power source weakened.

  Mine damn near blew out. If this was her closing off again, putting up her walls, it would gut me. I couldn’t keep drifting with her whims. Not after today. Not after this. To me, she could never be a fling.

  Sixteen

  Rachel

  Jimmy walked into the forest to pee before leaving, and I was still high as a kite—the sex, the picnic, the Chardonnay. The sex. The conversation, too. All that school and wine talk had set my mind spinning. I’d stopped considering winemaking as an option, but here it was again, a seed planted, courage growing. The pros and cons unfolded, because of Jimmy.

  He’d also unlocked Reckless Rachel in doses. Manageable pieces I could incorporate into my life. I could still feel the roar of the motorcycle under me, the perfection of Jimmy between my thighs.

  If I wanted to honor myself, understand what truly made me happy, in the bedroom and out, I’d have to start here. With my bad boy. Not get nervous like I had a moment ago and chicken out from confessing m
y feelings. I had to forget my concerns and trust that he was ready for a relationship. No more games. No unnecessary complications. When he came back, I’d look him in the eyes and tell him I was all in. I’d take him up on every sleepover offer and add a few suggestions of my own.

  I pulled on my leggings for the ride and gathered my jean jacket. As I packed up the food, my phone rang. I’d ignored my mother’s calls the past two days. So jumbled with thoughts of Jimmy and my stalled career, I worried I’d let something slip when I wasn’t ready for the head-on collision. If it was her and I ignored her again, she’d slap my face on a milk carton.

  I dropped to my knees and hit Talk. “Hello?”

  Whoever was on the other end sucked in her breath. “Is Jimmy there?”

  The female voice was sharp and strong, not my mother’s, and unease slicked my gut. Jimmy and I both had black iPhones—the same black cases, neither of us having chosen unique ring tones—which meant this wasn’t my cell. It wasn’t cool to answer Jimmy’s phone. It was intrusive and rude and something I’d never do. With the conversation I wanted to have, this wouldn’t be a great start. If I hung up, he’d never be the wiser, and the person would think they’d dialed the wrong number.

  But as I pulled the phone from my ear, the woman said, “I’m his mother, Alena. I know Jimmy doesn’t want to speak with me, but he won’t return my calls. I’m not sure who this is, or if there’s anything you can do to help, but we’ve let this go on too long. We want our son back.”

  My breathing spiked, and I searched the trees, worried Jimmy would return any moment and catch me talking to his freaking mother.

  Why did I answer the phone?

  Or maybe I was supposed to, another twist of fate, like my father’s final apology, my birthday wish, the blackout, and seeing that sommelier poster. Destiny unfolding.

  By the sounds of things, Jimmy would have ignored the call, but I’d seen how lonely his life was, how hard it had been for him to sip his family’s wine. I didn’t know the gory details of their fight, but he hadn’t moved on, and they clearly wanted to make amends.