Walk on the Wilder Side: Wilder Adventures, Book 2

by Serena Bell

  We dig in.

  “Omigod this is so good!” She’s quiet for a minute. Then she says, “Can I just say, there is something about a guy who can catch and cook his own food?”

  I grin. “Wait till we go camping and I catch fish in the woods with a handmade rod, roast them over an open fire, and feed you.”

  She puts her hand over her heart. “Shirtless?”

  I chuckle. “Super impractical with the bugs and the temp, but if it works for you, sure.”

  “It would work for me.”

  “I didn’t think you liked camping.” I remember from high school, her turning her nose up at it when Connor and I went.

  Rachel grins. “I mean, what you described is more like erotic art than camping.”

  I’m smiling so hard it hurts my face. I don’t think that has ever happened to me. “Rachel.”

  “Mmm?” She has just put another giant bite of trout with black butter in her mouth, and is making a face not so different from the one she made the other day next to my motorcycle. Makes it hard to eat. Pun intended.

  “I like you so damn much.”

  Her gaze jumps to my face, startled. And alarmed? For a second, my heart plummets.

  Then she smiles, the sweetest Rachel smile I’ve ever seen. “I like you, too, Brody Wilder,” she says. “So damn much.”

  30

  Brody

  “So,” I say, when we’ve wiped out dinner. “What’s for dessert?”

  “Let me do the dishes first.”

  “Nope. I’m doing the dishes.”

  “You cooked! I do the dishes!”

  “Nope.”

  I get up, cross to the sink and start washing.

  She gets up, strides toward me, and tries to body check me aside. Needless to say, with probably fifty pounds of muscle on her, I don’t move.

  She stands behind me and sticks her arms under mine, grabbing a dish and soaping it.

  “Seriously, Rachel?”

  But the feel of her breasts on my back is so distracting that my protest is limp. Okay, wrong word choice. My protest is solidly upright and begging for more. I shut off the water and turn in her arms, kissing her.

  It goes from zero to sixty in about three seconds. Rachel’s mouth does that to me. Apparently, mine does it to her, too, because it doesn’t take long before she’s panting, clutching, riding my thigh. I lift her up, planning to carry her to my bedroom, but she stops me. “Wait. Let me get dessert first.”

  “What?”

  She pulls away—not my plan—and retrieves the Rush to Read Books bag from where she left it on the counter. She opens it and removes the contents.

  One small bullet vibe, one fleshlight, and a bottle of warming gel. Strawberry flavored.

  “Oh, wow,” I say, going from hard to harder. It’s hot enough, thinking about using that vibe on her, but… “Have you been thinking about this all night?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she says happily. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “I’m not sure where you got your good girl reputation, but it’s totally shot.” I grab her hand, leading her. “Kaput. Wait. Give me a second.” I make her stand in the hall while I neaten things up. Luckily it’s not a total pigsty in there. My sheets are clean, there’s only a few days worth of laundry tossed on the floor, and my own bottle of lube, which has been getting more than its fair share of use since Rachel came to town, is in the drawer with the box of condoms I bought yesterday.

  “Okay, come in.”

  She does, and sets the bag on the bed.

  I kiss her, stopping only long enough to strip off her shirt. I resume, managing to unbutton, unzip, and slide her pants down without interrupting the tangle of our tongues or our co-mingled groans of pleasure. Then my hand is between her legs. Her panties are damp. I reach for the Rush to Read bag, find the bullet vibe, and use my thumb to press the soft power button.

  Then I hand it to her. “I want to watch.”

  She blushes and shakes her head. “I want you to use it on me.”

  “I promise. Later. Right now? I want to watch you use it.”

  She hesitates, then drops to the bed and brings the vibe close to the plumpest part of her mound.

  With her free hand, she pushes the bag towards me. “If you get to watch me, I get to watch you.”

  She doesn’t have to ask twice. I shed my pants like it’s an Olympic sport. A moment later, I’ve got the fleshlight lubed up and am slowly stroking myself into it.

  Not bad.

  Not quite the real thing, but since Rachel has just pulled her panties off and is sliding the quietly buzzing vibe against her seam, I’m more worried about getting off too quickly.

  “Look at you,” I groan. Her knees have fallen apart, thighs parted, and I can see her, pink and gorgeous and glistening. “Look at you.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment, and there’s something so intense about this, about the abandoned look on her face, the motion of her hand between her legs. I can see all of her at once, and it’s really, really doing it for me. I have to slow down and ease up so I can stay with her.

  The vibe is right on her clit now, and her thighs are trembling. She’s watching my hand. Her mouth is open, her lips soft and wet.

  I have to stop stroking completely.

  “Brody.”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “This isn’t going to make me come.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She shakes her head and glares down at it. “I’m going to need my money back. I’m going to get that Cadillac thing next time. Or maybe the rabbit?”

  “Or both,” I suggest. “You should probably buy stock. Would that be a conflict of interest?”

  We’re both laughing, and it occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve ever thought of sex as fun before. Which probably means I was doing it wrong.

  Or just with the wrong women.

  She sobers up and gives me a super serious look. “Will you help me?”

  My cock jerks in the clasp of silicone and my fist. “Jesus, Rachel. Of fucking course.”

  I reach to take the vibe from her, but she shuts it off and sets it aside, then unhooks her bra. “Your mouth.”

  Rachel asking for my mouth will go down for all eternity as a peak life experience.

  She’s so fucking pretty, leaning up on her elbows. Not just her brown-tipped tits and that small, neat strip of hair and the shine of arousal on her pussy—although hell, I’m not complaining about any of that. But the curiosity and anticipation on her face. The sexy half smile. The bright glint in her eyes.

  She hands me the warming gel. “Dessert,” she says, the smile getting bigger, the glint naughtier.

  I kneel and tug her down to the edge of the bed. Slick her with gel. Cover her with my mouth. Even through the fake strawberry flavor, I can taste how aroused she is. Her clit is big and swollen under my tongue, probably too sensitive right now for direct contact. So I slide two fingers into her, crook them up until she gasps and lifts off the bed, and work her g-spot.

  With my other hand, I reach up to play with her nipples.

  Then I give her back my tongue on her clit, big, slow, circles. Not too much contact, but lots of pressure and heat.

  “Oh, God, Brody,” she says. “Holy fuck, that’s—”

  I’ve made her curse.

  “—so good. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

  And I’ve made her say don’t stop.

  She’s lifting her hips to my mouth now, quick and eager. She’s close.

  I lighten up, keeping her there. Holding her at that edge for as long as I can. Until she says, “Brody, please.”

  Then I suck her clit and take her over the edge, so she’s moaning my name, clenching on my fingers, and slicking my tongue.

  I am never going to get enough of this. Of her.

  31

  Rachel

  He makes a small noise of satisfaction.

  I can’t even do that. I just lie there, limp to my toes.

&n
bsp; Wanting him.

  Even with his fingers (still) inside me, coming that hard makes me hungry for more.

  “You know what I really want?”

  “What do you really want, baby?” He slides his fingers out—leaving me even more empty—and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “I want you inside me.”

  The flush on Brody’s face deepens. “I want that, too.”

  He yanks his shirt over his head and kicks his way out of his pants and boxer briefs.

  Brody Wilder stark naked is a national treasure. He’s such a feast, I can’t figure out where I want to look—at his golden, inked pecs, the line of dark-gold hair bisecting his eight pack, or the proud jut of his cock at the V of muscle in his hips.

  What did I do to deserve this prize?

  “Admiring the merch?” he teases, flexing a bit.

  “Nah,” I tease back, and he rolls his eyes and crawls up the bed over me, bracing himself on his arms. Which only creates an even better biceps-and-pecs scenario for ogling. Brody’s built enough that he has those distinct swells of muscle—the cap of shoulder, the swell of mid-bicep, that gorgeous cut between biceps and triceps.

  So. Lickable.

  “Eyes up here, pretty girl,” he teases, lowering himself onto me. And oh, my God, it feels good, all that warm skin against skin. I wrap my arms around him and rub myself all over him, and he groans and holds me tight, dropping kisses along my jawline until he finds my mouth. And then we’re kissing so hard and so deep. Not like any other kisses we’ve shared. They’ve all been good, but this kiss says, I need you. Now.

  And maybe forever.

  I won’t examine that thought right now. I won’t. I clutch him closer and sink deeper into the kiss, begging him for more of his mouth, more of his hands. He is a skilled multitasker, kissing me and also finding my nipples with his thumb and forefinger, tweaking, rolling, pinching, flicking.

  Those sensations gang up with the tension gathering in my core, and suddenly another orgasm doesn’t feel far off.

  Which is not my mode of operation, usually.

  Brody has found my second gear, and I so appreciate it.

  He rolls away from me, fumbling with the nightstand drawer, coming back with a packet in his hand. His hands are shaking. I take it from him, open it, and roll it on him.

  “I want to go slow,” he says.

  He eases himself through the slick of arousal on my sex, sliding back and forth over my clit. Yup, I’m going to come again, without even trying.

  And as soon as I do, as soon as I buck and call his name, he plunges in and fills me, and it’s so, so good. I’m coming and clenching and needing, and he’s big and thick and hot and everything I need.

  “Yeah, Rachel, just like that, you come for me, baby, you come.”

  He kisses me again, deep and greedy, and there’s no way he’s taking this slow. It feels too good—to both of us. I can’t stop grabbing him and pulling him deeper. I can’t stop kissing him like I want to devour him. I can’t stop trying to touch him, everywhere.

  His first couple of controlled, careful thrusts give way to what comes next. I feel that moment—when he realizes it. His rhythm breaks first, then the kiss. He’s up, over me, eyes almost surprised, his hips jerking. Needy. Greedy. Grunts and fingers digging into my flesh.

  I love it.

  “That’s it,” I tell him. “You take what you need.”

  And then he doesn’t even try to stay in control. He thrusts chaotically, hard, deep, rolling and grinding his hips over mine, which makes me come again. Yes. Again.

  And then he’s coming, mouth on mine, hands gripping me, every muscle in his body rigid.

  “Rachel!”

  Condom attended to, he wraps me in his arms and holds me.

  There are no questions about whether we’ll cuddle or whether I’ll stay. Who’ll put on clothes or how we’ll share the bed. There’s just this. Brody’s arms and his lips in my hair and his voice murmuring that I have just broken him because he’s never had sex that good before.

  Neither have I.

  “Maybe it’s not that you broke me,” he says, a minute later. “Maybe it’s that you put me back together.”

  I smile against his bare chest.

  Another thing there is no question about:

  I am in love with Brody Wilder. This is not a thing I have to agonize about, discuss with my girlfriends, or realize in a sudden, shining moment. It’s just so obvious. Possibly I loved Brody Wilder from the moment he first picked me up by the side of the road where I was standing with my bike, its front tire flat.

  Possibly I loved him before that, from afar, watching him play with Connor and knowing that I would always be on the outside of that boy awesomeness, telling myself I didn’t care.

  More likely, I fell in love with him sometime this month. Maybe when I realized that he would do just about anything to make things right for his family’s business and his family. When he somehow managed to take in stride the fact that I’d unexpectedly brought sex toys on his boat. When he taught me to picnic without a plan and jump without overthinking it.

  When I saw how much he loves Justin. How even through his anger and frustration, he has such a big, loving, giving heart.

  It doesn’t really matter. The point is, the problem is, I’m in love with Brody Wilder.

  And I don’t want to be the girl Brody Wilder fucks. I want to be the woman he loves.

  I don’t want to take a walk on the Wilder side.

  I want to live there.

  I want Brody Wilder to be the awesome boyfriend in step six, the man in my plan.

  Now I just have to figure out how to tell him that.

  32

  Brody

  It takes us a long time to get out of bed the next morning. Rachel makes us coffee, and I cook us bacon and eggs.

  We’re not out of the bed very long, though, before we find ourselves back in it.

  Not that either of us minds.

  By the time we manage to get ourselves dressed and the kitchen cleaned up, it’s late morning. And I still don’t want Rachel to go. My eye falls on a copy of the Five Rivers Gazette that I tossed with a pile of mail on my counter. “You know what we should do? We should take Justin and go to the Five Rivers Summer Festival.”

  Even before the brides and grooms and spa-seekers showed up, Rush Creek was a tourist town. There’s always some kind of festival going on. Quilts. Crafts. Art. Blues and Brews. Spring, summer, fall, holiday … there’s always something.

  Up until now, I’ve never been much of a festival goer. But if it means I get to spend another day with my two favorite people, I’m in.

  Her eyes meet mine. “We might run into people we know.” She’s watching me carefully.

  “We might.” I shrug. I’m not as nonchalant as I’m pretending to be, but I’m done hiding Rachel like she’s a dirty secret. I don’t know what will happen next between us—there’s still the huge matter of three thousand miles—but Connor definitely doesn’t get to have an opinion about it.

  She raises her eyebrows. “You ready for that?”

  I nod. “Are you?”

  She hesitates. Her gaze trails away from me, and my heart stutters over a beat. Then she looks back, brown eyes steady, and nods. “Yeah. I am.”

  I try to ignore the warmth that spreads in my chest. It’s impossible. I quit trying. I reach for her hand and squeeze it. She squeezes back.

  I’ve made up my mind that sometime today, maybe at the festival, I’m going to ask her if she thinks there’s any future for us.

  Because I do.

  I don’t know what it would look like. It might be hard. It might mean long distance or sacrifice on one of our parts—but I have to at least ask.

  For now, though, I content myself with bending down to kiss her.

  And of course, we have to make one more trip back to bed before we finally make it out the door.

  We grab Justin from Zoë’s—no muss, n
o fuss—and head to the festival. Rush Creek is just one of the sites for the summer fair, but there’s still a lot going on. We throw a blanket down in the shade near one of the music stages and let Justin kick his pudgy bare feet while we listen to Logjam, a rock band started by a couple of Connor’s and my friends. After a while that gives way to some seriously lame singer-songwriter on solo guitar, and Rachel and I exchange a look. We don’t even have to say it out loud. We just pack up, strap Justin back into the Baby Bjorn carrier, facing out, and wander off to explore the food booths.

  We probably should get real food, but neither of us wants to, so we buy elephant ears and garlic fries. Rachel offers Justin small bites of her food, which Zoë said would be okay as long as I didn’t give him anything he could choke on. He gums them with gusto, whapping his hands and shouting his approval, then drools most of the contents of his mouth into the space between his chest and the carrier. That’ll be fun later.

  We end up in the kids’ section of the festival. Justin seems uninterested in the juggler and I don’t think he’ll get anything out of the face painting. It’ll just end up all over me and Rachel.

  And then we strike the motherlode of kid joy.

  Touch a Truck day.

  “Justin, look!” I tell him as we step around the high school. Justin is still in the Baby Bjorn, strapped to my chest and facing out. I’m holding Rachel’s hand. Which feels amazing. I’m slowly realizing I don’t think I’ve held anyone else’s hand before Rachel’s.

  It’s so fucking nice.

  “That’s a school bus, Jus. When you get bigger, you’ll go to school like the big kids, and that’s how you’ll get there,” Rachel tells him.

  I’m sure he has no idea what she’s saying, but he bounces with excitement anyway. And maybe it’s just the little kid in me, but I don’t see how anyone couldn’t think this was awesome. Fire trucks, police cruisers, backhoes, school buses—plus loads and loads of other kids, running around and providing extra visual entertainment.