Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  Braden sets one bag down so he can open the front door, letting it swing wide. Charley bounds through the open doorway and disappears.

  “I mind. If anyone’s going to wreck that dress by getting their paws on it, it’s me.”

  He waves me forward. His big body leaves little room for mine when I pass by him in the doorway—not nearly enough room for our physical bodies and my rapid breaths and his potent energy and all this sexual tension.

  When I step across the threshold, I can feel him behind me. His energy and his heat, near enough that I have force myself to continue forward instead of stopping in my tracks so his body will crash straight into the length of mine. I pair a deep breath with every footfall I take until I’m safely in his living room. I set my things on the floor and turn in a circle, surveying Braden’s little warren, trying to determine if it’s what I imagined.

  A couple of table lamps brighten the room, throwing shadowy light across log timbers that frame the walls and line the floors. A stone fireplace covers nearly all of one wall, black soot darkening the stones below the mantle, evidence of its many years of use. The furniture is spare and casual—one armchair, one couch, one coffee table, and one console table—all made from brown leathers and dark woods. And everywhere one might expect to find knickknacks and novelties, Braden has books, all neatly arranged on sturdy shelves. Charley has flopped down on a dog bed near the fireplace, stuffed dog toys and rawhides surrounding her.

  Braden strides past with my bags and disappears down a short hallway, returning empty-handed a moment later.

  “I put your stuff in the bedroom. We can discuss sleeping arrangements later.” He passes me without pausing, headed toward the small kitchen that’s just off the living room. “You want a drink?”

  I cast a quizzical look at the ceiling. We can discuss sleeping arrangements later?

  He better mean a discussion about which side of the bed he favors. Or if he prefers to sleep with an extra blanket on the bed or the window cracked open to let in a soft breeze. Because he’s insane if he thinks we’re discussing anything that involves us not sleeping together for the next two nights—postcoital, sated, and satisfied.

  I narrow my eyes on his retreating form. “Sure.”

  A freezer door opens, and ice clinks into glasses. “Is whiskey OK with you?”

  Tipping my ear toward the kitchen, I listen harder for any nuance in his question, a hint of some sort. But there’s nothing. No impatience, no nervousness. Just … Switzerland.

  “Sure,” I answer. Again.

  Except this time, my voice cracks. Because I am not Switzerland. I’m, I don’t know … a small, confused country in the middle of a heat wave. One that is best endured with fewer clothes on. A place like Vegas, mashed together with a tropical island, and crossed with something French—an all-inclusive resort that I really wanted to visit, but at the moment, I’m not sure intends to the provide turn-down service I expected.

  Braden reappears with two highball glasses in hand and passes one my way. We tip our glasses together. I take a small sip of the amber liquid and study him, looking for anything that might explain why we both still have our clothes on. I find nothing. Nothing. A maddening amount of absolutely nothing.

  I flick a finger between us. “What’s happening here?”

  Braden’s eyebrows come together, enough that it’s clear he doesn’t get what I’m driving at. Maybe I’m on the wrong side of this equation. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’ve tossed all men into a big bag of stereotypes with boners, and Braden doesn’t belong in there. Maybe he doesn’t want to have sex.

  Huh.

  My eyes dart upward as I try to process that theory. Frankly, it doesn’t compute. The ice in Braden’s glass clinks and my eyes drop to meet his. He draws the tip of his tongue across his lips, shifting his eyes to my mouth as he does, and the sight of his tongue teasing something other than my mouth, my skin, my breasts, or anywhere on my body shreds my remaining patience. I take a deep breath. Consent is everything, I remind myself—on both sides.

  “Do you want to have sex tonight?” I blurt out.

  Braden “Switzerland” Montgomery doesn’t visibly react. He simply holds the moment silently. The highball glass in my hand begins to tremble, and I clamp my fingers down to make it stop.

  His answer is unaffected. “Yes, I do.”

  I blow out a shaky exhale and take a gulp of my drink, swallowing quickly no matter the burn. “Well, I do, too. So what’s the holdup? And what’s with ‘discussing sleeping arrangements’?”

  I use my free hand to air-quote for effect, but there’s a tremor in my voice that betrays the blunt indifference I was trying for. Braden calmly takes the highball glass from my hand and sets both on the console table behind him.

  “I didn’t want to assume.” He steps close and tips his head to mine, near enough that his breath skates across the shell of my ear. “And I don’t want to rush through this. I only have you for two nights, so I want to make this last.”

  The entire room falls away, along with every anxiety, every question, every confusing thought I had. All that’s left behind is the two of us, intensely present and entirely vulnerable to whatever comes next between us. And I want Braden to decide what that might be, because I’m tired of taking the lead. I’ve made the first move more than once, and tonight, I don’t want to ply him or convince him, or have it feel like he’s simply succumbing to a craving he couldn’t control. It’s time for Braden to prove to me this isn’t one-sided by taking the reins, just so long as I know I’ll get them back at some point.

  I caught a glimpse of the Braden I want earlier tonight, when the too-slick, too-skinny cowboy at the foundation dinner invaded a little too much of my space. Braden’s protective yet patient gaze was on me, and I wanted to wrap myself in that sensation, sink into the experience of being watched over without being hovered over. Braden didn’t storm over like a bull bent on drawing blood, or alpha his way in and deck the cowboy’s lights out, even when I was ready for him to do exactly that. He acted like a man, not a hotheaded kid, and I wanted that man—the one in possession of all that control and composure—to want me.

  Braden moves to stand behind me. He draws my hair away from the side of my neck, placing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind my ear, then traces his fingertips to that same spot, and my entire body comes alive. Another sweep of my hair to the side, exposing the zipper on my dress, the one he could so easily yank down. Instead his hands land on my shoulders, fingers splayed wide so he can gently knead the muscles there. My eyes drift closed.

  “I haven’t done this in a while,” he says.

  Eyes still closed, my brow knits. This impromptu neck massage is diverting, but not so much that I don’t find what he just said a little surprising. Sure, Braden isn’t exactly a poster child for sociability, but he is hot. His looks alone could open a few bedroom doors, and anyone who bothers to peek under his surly Superman cape would find a man who never neglects to answer a text and sometimes checks his best friend’s forehead for sign of a fever. Add in that big, masculine body of his and the guy could easily get some if he wanted to, so there must be a reason why he’s been on hiatus.

  Braden’s thumbs begin to work over deep knots near my shoulder blades that I didn’t know were there.

  “Why has it been a while?”

  He continues to knead until he feels my shoulders wilt in relief.

  “I got burnt by an ex a few years back. I hadn’t met anyone worth the trouble since then. Until now.”

  My curiosity doubles down on those last two words. “Why me?”

  I’m not sure what it is I want him to say, so long as they aren’t trite words about how I look. From another man, that sort of desire might be enough, but with Braden I need something else. What, I’m not exactly sure. I just know I need more than the superficial.

  Braden’s hands drop to my hips and he grips them firmly, pressing his groin to my backside.

  “Because you make me
feel like a goddam live wire. You’re in the room and I feel you. I don’t have to see you, even. Because you’re fucking everywhere. It puts my teeth on edge and sets my skin on fire. And I can’t get enough.”

  He’d heard my thoughts. He had to—that’s the only explanation for his being able to say exactly what I needed to hear, yet couldn’t name for myself. I calm the urge to all but shout, Take me, sailor!—like some swoony matinee star from back in the day.

  Slowly, I turn in his grip and meet his heavy-lidded gaze, intent on kissing him or dropping to my knees, whatever feels right. But Braden slinks one arm tight around my waist, trapping me in his grip so he can run his fingers across my mouth, his eyes fixed there so intensely my face heats under the lovely scrutiny. My lips part a fraction, ready to speak or kiss or moan, I’m not sure which.

  Braden continues to stare at my mouth. “Because it’s been a while for me, I need you to let me set the pace this time. Can you do that?”

  My chest begins to rise and fall raggedly. “Can we take turns after that?”

  Braden’s face immediately cracks into a broad grin. One that’s wry and exasperated, but above all, charmed … charmed by me.

  A slow shake of his head. “You couldn’t just say yes, could you?”

  “You know you would have been disappointed if I had. I just want to be sure I get my turn. I want to drive you crazy, but in a good way.”

  His grin fades, his eyes darken, and I find myself tossed over his shoulder before I can even act like I might object.

  “Fucking live wire,” he mutters, striding down the hallway and ducking when we make it to the doorway, flipping on a light switch at the same time. Braden sets me back on my feet near a single nightstand next to an enormous bed.

  The room itself isn’t huge, so the bed takes up most of it. The frame is gray-stained pine trimmed with black wrought iron, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think it was one of Trey’s designs because it’s industrial-looking and impossible to ignore. The nightstand holds a tower of books and an alarm clock, and there’s a grocery-store bag tossed there, partially open to reveal its contents.

  Condoms.

  Good man, Braden.

  I waste no time after that, reaching for him with a tug while trying to work his belt open and yank his shirt off all at the same time. Braden’s hands swoop in and latch on to mine, letting out a low rumble as he spins me to face the other direction, still somehow able to keep my wrists in his loose but commanding grip.

  His lips meet the crown of my head, whispering, “My pace. We agreed.”

  Being denied means I end up whimpering. He’s apparently unmoved, because he uses one hand to begin unzipping my dress while continuing to hold my wrists in his other hand. My dress starts to slip from my shoulders on its own, and I have to fight the impulse to wrestle free of his grip so I can shimmy the dress to the floor as quickly as possible.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to struggle for long, because as soon as the zipper is down, Braden gives in and uses both of his hands to push the dress off completely. The material hits the floor in a soft pile, and I’m left standing there in heels and my favorite matching set of underthings. While both pieces are skimpy enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination, the white floral lace is unlined and delicate, so I always feel both pretty and sexy.

  Behind me, Braden gives up a curse but doesn’t touch me. His breath is labored, as if he’s working hard to hold off. I tip my hips back so our bodies brush against each other, and that’s all it takes. His hands come to my breasts, cupping them fully with a gentle squeeze before teasing my nipples with the tips of his fingers. When I let out a long moan and grind my body to the front of his pants, Braden spins me around, kisses me once, and then tosses me on the bed, where I bounce once. I lean back on my forearms and watch as he draws his hands down my calves and pulls off my heels, tossing them on the floor behind him. His eyes skim my body as he starts to undress.

  “Here’s the thing: this first go-around, I’m bound to be a little quicker on the trigger than I want to be, so I need you to tell me what you like. I promise it won’t always be that way, but like I said, it’s been a while—and you drive me completely out of my fucking mind. Help me out, OK? Help me make sure this first time is good for you. Tell me what gets you there.”

  Braden continues to eat me up with his eyes as he loosens his belt and tosses it on the floor, then does the same with his shirt, using one hand to yank it off. My eyes go wide at the sight of his bare chest. He’s not built like a model with washboard abs that go on for days, or some smooth waxed torso that mimics a Ken doll—he’s built like a man. Defined pecs and biceps, strong abs, and a dusting of dark hair on his chest that tapers to a trail disappearing under the waist of the pants he’s now unbuttoning. My mouth falls slightly agape, and I start to feel a little dizzy. And when he starts in on a lewd quiz, that only makes the wooziness worse.

  “Do you like being on top so you can ride it? From behind so I can play with your pussy while I get deep? Under me and your legs spread so you can rub your clit? Is there something else you like?”

  My mouth goes dry and my voice disappears along with it. Not only because it’s hard to decide between all those filthy and fabulous options, but because he’s naked now, standing there asking me how I best get off while he strokes himself. With every twist of his fist over the head, his abs contract and the muscles in his forearm flex—and I can’t think, let alone speak.

  “Amber,” he rasps. “Answer me.”

  I close my eyes. At this point, I think any of what he’s mentioned will work for me, but I take a moment to imagine each one in my mind as a flickering, full-color fantasy. Braden starts to press again, but I hold up my hand to quiet him.

  “One second, please. I’m picturing all my options. Just finished riding you; now I’m bent over the mattress with you behind me.” I bite the tip of my tongue between my teeth gently, still considering.

  A long groaning curse from Braden. His hand starts to trace up the inside of my leg, eventually meeting the edge of my panties, sliding his thumb across the bit of lace that covers my pussy. A few passes over the material, then he sneaks beneath it, cursing again when he feels how ready I am. That touch and my last image are enough to make a decision. My eyes flip open.

  “Like this. My legs spread and you above me.”

  Braden doesn’t delay. He grabs my legs behind the knees, tugging me a few inches closer, and reaches over to grab a condom. Watching him, the quake in his hands but the surety in his actions, is a sight on its own.

  Seconds later he’s over me, his mouth on my neck and his cock pressed to my core, grinding in long passes over the lace still covering me. I work my hands down between us and stroke him once, then tug my panties over, thinking I might actually cry if we stop and try to take them off properly. Braden seats himself where we both want him, pushing forward slowly. Too slowly. I dig my nails into his backside.

  “Braden. Don’t tease. I can’t—”

  He drives deep in one thrust and my words become nothing. Braden pushes upright so he can spread my legs wide, his hands gripping my knees for leverage. I arch my back and instantly feel one of his hands on my bra, yanking down each cup roughly, my breasts falling into his demanding grip. I dip one hand low over my belly, then lower, until my fingers meet the slick space just above where our bodies meet. Braden’s eyes jump to track my movements and his jaw flexes tight as he watches my fingertips work in frantic, tiny circles.

  “Fuck yes,” he groans, “Rub that clit. God, that’s the way you like it, isn’t it? Fast little circles. Show me more so I know for next time. Next time, I’ll do everything, I promise. All you’ll have to do is take it, let me fuck you and make you come.”

  I respond with a moan. Next time. I love the sound of that, the idea of that—even if it seems he’s already forgotten that we agreed to take turns.

  Braden gives up his hold on my breasts so he can press my legs wider, opening them so
much it’s almost painful, but the fullness of him and the steady thrum of my fingertips mean I feel nothing but pleasure.

  “Tell me you’re close,” he urges. “Or tell me what you need. Come on, baby.”

  I nod frantically, a nonanswer that he somehow unravels and figures out what to do with. Braden’s thrusts become rough and short, exactly what I need—and everything behind my eyes goes blazing white as my body turns to shrapnel. And when Braden follows, I nearly come again because he keeps going and going, refusing to let it end until he’s damn good and ready.

  Finally, his body nearly collapses on mine. I scratch my nails down his back, soaking up the weight of him for as long as I can, knowing eventually I won’t be able to breathe. But putting aside that basic need, I could get used to this: Braden impossibly close, the heady buzz of pleasure swimming through my body, and the way every problem in my life feels a million miles away.

  “My live wire,” Braden whispers, dropping a soft kiss to my neck. “You were so worth waiting for.”

  (Braden)

  “Getting up too early is a vice habitual in horned owls, stars, geese, and freight trains. Some hunters acquire it from geese, and some coffee pots from hunters.”

  —ALDO LEOPOLD, A SAND COUNTY ALMANAC

  The warm body I wake up next to is not the one I’m expecting—it is, however, the one I typically share my bed with.

  Charley’s snout is resting on my chest, her perpetual doggy morning breath wafting toward my face. She opens her eyes lazily a moment after I do and looks pleased as always to see me. Greatest dog ever. Even so, her furry muzzle is not the face I wanted to wake up to this morning.

  I lift my head and peer about the room. Amber is nowhere to be seen, but all of her bags are where I left them last night, which is a good sign that she’s here somewhere and didn’t decide to bail on me in the middle of the night.

  Although why she isn’t lying here next to me remains to be seen. If she were, that would make it a hell of a lot easier to commence with what I had mind when I woke up. Now I have to get out of bed, drag her back in here while listening to her gripe about it being her turn to set the pace, then see how many licks it takes to quiet her complaints. My head flops back to the pillow on a groan. I don’t care how many licks it takes, I have a taste for every last one.