Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  “Lilacs? Does Dayton like that? Because it’s a little girly. Maybe that’s the problem.”

  Trey lifts a wry eyebrow and shoots Amber a hard look, then rounds the yard and calls out to his dog, Saint, who is Charley’s new best friend. Trey and Saint then disappear out the side gate, leaving Charley to look longingly at the gate. She barks once then saunters our way and flops down underneath my chair.

  “Who’s Dayton?” I ask, once I’m sure Trey is gone.

  Amber snorts. “His unrequited love. Well, more like the love he won’t requite … or something. She’s his employee, they want each other, but neither of them has the cojones to do anything about it.” Her eyes brighten mischievously. She pokes me in the chest. “You should ask him about her tomorrow. It will irk the shit out of him.”

  I shake my head. “No. Guys who just met don’t go asking each other about their unrequited anything. And why would I want to irk him? He’s your brother. I want to be on his good side.”

  Amber’s mischief eyes fade, and she tilts her head thoughtfully. “You do, don’t you? Be on his good side.”

  I nod. Her eyes remain on mine, asking for more without saying a word. Asking why I care what her brother thinks of me, wanting to know if that says something about us.

  Maybe later I’ll answer her. Maybe in some quiet moment that feels right, I’ll tell her all the reasons why.

  Two hours later, we have the house to ourselves again and we’re finishing up the last of the cleanup that we can’t put off until tomorrow. Amber is putting lids on plastic containers filled with leftovers while I finish hand-washing the things that wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher. After giving a large stoneware bowl one more rinse, I grab a dish towel and start to dry the bowl off, my eyes landing on Amber as I work, taking in everything about her.

  She’s wearing a little outfit that’s essentially a one-piece combo of shorts with a top in a silky yellow fabric, and paired with heeled sandals that show off her lean, tan legs. The top is strapless, held up by her full tits and a laughable strip of elastic. I’ve spent most of the day trying not to leer at her in front of her friends and doing my best to keep from going hard when she planted herself in my lap. Both became more difficult as the evening wore on and once I was a few beers in, the image of her on her knees in front of me with the top part of her outfit rolled down popped into my mind one too many times.

  Amber catches my stare when she puts the containers in the fridge, her mouth lilting up on one side. “What’s up there, Braden?”

  “Just thinking.”

  She shuts fridge door with a bump of her hip, then turns to face me. “Yeah? Thinking about what? Is it dirty?”

  I set the dish on the counter and toss the dish towel next to it, waving my hand toward her outfit. “I like what you’re wearing. The shorts-and-top-sewn-together thing.”

  She laughs, tosses her head back a little when she does. “You are such a man. It’s called a romper. But I’m glad you like it.”

  Romper. I don’t think that’s supposed to sound dirty, but it does. And now I kind of want to tell her to romper her ass over here so I can feel her up and then let those tits spill out into my hands.

  I won’t, but I want to. I do try to keep my filthiest thoughts to myself, just to be sure I don’t accidentally say something that might make me sound like one of her creepier fans. In general, my rule is, if something I’m thinking might earn a “like” from some prick that trolls her Instagram, I won’t share it with her or ask it of her. I’m thinking that “Come over here in that romper, get on your knees, and suck me dry” definitely qualifies.

  Amber’s eyes turn wicked as if she can read my every thought anyway. “What do you like about it?”

  I latch my hands to the countertop on either side of my body. “That you’re in it.”

  She takes a step toward me. “Yeah?”

  I nod as she continues to prowl forward. Her kitchen is tiny, so it only takes a few steps for her to land right in front of me, looking up at me with her blue eyes full of heat. I grip the countertop harder. Amber leans up and draws her soft lips across mine, not in a kiss, but a tease.

  “Tell me,” she murmurs.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Whatever naughty thing is going on in that head of yours. Tell me.”

  Her hands drift onto my waist, flicking and fingering near the button on my jeans. I shake my head as my entire body tenses. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I grit out.

  Amber must feel the rush of tension in my body and hear the same in my voice, because she tips her head back to scan my face.

  “Hey. What’s with being made of stone all of a sudden? Why is your heart beating like a jackhammer? And why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking about?”

  I’m screwed now, because she’s called me out and that means I can either fess up to my thoughts and risk looking like a perverted jerk, or I can refuse to say more and look like a withdrawn jerk who won’t communicate. I debate my two shitty options with a long exhale, answering when I decide there’s only one grown-up way to deal with this.

  “Because what I’m thinking right now involves saying things that might make me sound like one of those assholes who write screwed-up sex comments on posts where you happen to be on your knees or your top is tugged down or your lips look all plumped up and swollen.” I suck in a quick breath. “And I never, ever want you to think I’m like them. Or think that I think of you the way they do. I don’t. You’re more than a fucking picture to me, OK?”

  Amber’s jaw drops open, likely because I’ve raised my voice more than necessary and I’m having a hard time looking her in the eye for more than a second at a time. She slowly draws her jaw closed then flops it open again, clearly reconsidering whatever it was she planned to say. Finally, she lets out a breathy chuckle.

  “Have you been worrying about this? Do you actually think I’d confuse whatever dirty thoughts you share with me, with what happens behind a computer screen? Seriously?”

  My eyes dart up and I start to study the ceiling. When she says it like that, it doesn’t sound the same as it does in my head. In my head it’s a big deal and not to be taken lightly, but when she says it, it sounds melodramatic and stupid.

  Mumbling, I drop my gaze and give her a scowl. “I guess.”

  Her face relaxes into a patient grin.

  “Well, don’t. You get all of me, Braden. Parts of me that those people will never see, or touch, or understand.”

  She takes my hands and sets them low on her hips. Her hands return to my fly, grazing a lazy pattern there.

  “I want you to tell me whatever you’re thinking. You just have to trust that I’ll tell you if it’s too much or it makes me uncomfortable. Have I given you any reason to think I would hold back my thoughts?”

  I shake my head. God knows she doesn’t hold back—ever.

  Amber slips from my hold and slowly steps backward until she’s back where she was when this conversation started.

  “Then let’s give this another try, OK?” She lifts her arms up to mime as a director might, clapping her hands together. “Take. Two.”

  We lock eyes for what feels like minutes, until Amber’s expression becomes that of a goddam temptress. “Tell me.”

  Every hesitation melts away when I recognize how alone we are. It’s just the two of us here. All those nameless and faceless people, they aren’t here. They never will be. What happens in this room, in this moment, is for Amber and me alone.

  “Come here.” I crook a finger lazily. Amber approaches the same way, in a slow amble that drives every thought I’ve had today right up to the surface. “Hurry the fuck up.”

  She smiles—and doesn’t do a thing to quicken her pace. When she finally arrives in front of me, I dig my fingers to her hips and give them a rough jerk.

  “You want to know what I’m thinking? What I want from you?”

  Amber lets out a breathy moan when I yan
k on her hips again. She nods, closes her eyes. “Yes.”

  I slide one hand down to palm her ass with a light touch, then rear back and swat her so hard that we both moan. Her eyes flip open in surprise, then hood and go hazy.

  “All fucking day I’ve watched you. Watched you laugh and smile and be amazing, dressed in this whatever-you-call-it, with your tanned legs teasing me and just this little piece here”—I draw a finger over the upper edge of her top—“to keep my hands off your beautiful tits. And it’s been killing me.”

  Amber arches her back, pushing herself into the grip of my hands.

  “I want you on your knees, that top tugged down so I can touch you while my cock is in your pretty mouth, fucking it while you suck me.” I give the silky fabric a teasing tug at her breasts and grab another handful of fabric with the hand I still have on her ass. “That’s what I want. Now tell me what you want.”

  She licks her lips and nods. “I want all of that. Just promise me you won’t make me stop. Not until you’re there, all the way. I want to taste it.”

  My answer is a curse, one I keep repeating as she starts to lower her body, trailing her hands over my chest, my abs, my thighs, until she’s exactly where I want her.

  Amber’s blue eyes peek up to mine and I can’t mistake the desire there. I grit my teeth to pace myself, but Amber clearly wants none of that because she parts her lips just enough to peek her tongue out. My words come in a rush—spoken before I can figure a way to tame them, either with some endearment or a simple “please.”

  “You’re making my cock hurt. Fix it. Take me out and give me the rest of what I want.”

  Amber doesn’t hesitate, setting me free in a few smooth moves and straight into her warm, wet mouth. The first full stroke of her lips across my shaft is enough to force my hands into her hair, keeping her still because the last thing I want is to come too quickly. She fights my hold by whimpering but the sound only prompts me to knot her hair through my fingers, just to hear her do it again.

  Once I’m in control, I ease my grip and Amber starts to slip her mouth over my cock, slow at first. When she adds in a hand with the perfect rhythm, I sink into the feeling, loving every second until her mouth suddenly disappears. My eyes flip open. I peer down to find her giving me an impish smile.

  “Oops. I almost forgot.”

  She uses her free hand to pull down her top, and her breasts tumble out with a little bounce that drives a groan from my throat. I reach down immediately and grasp her flesh in my hand. Hard. Her nipple feels like a diamond in my palm, and Amber moans before setting her mouth on me again. After that, I can’t keep from saying every single thing that leaps to mind—begging her to not stop, telling her how good it is, how much I love her hot little mouth. When Amber draws back and lets her tongue work circles across the sensitive underside, I can’t take anything else, coming harsh and hard and for what feels like forever.

  Amber continues until I let out a hiss of discomfort. My cock is still in her tender hold, but she sits back on her heels and turns her face up to mine. Her eyes are shining and soft all at once—and suddenly the only thing I want is her not on her knees. I wrestle my weak hands under her arms and haul her up, pressing our bodies together until it feels like nothing exists beyond the two of us, right here and right now.

  (Braden)

  “And you can bury me beneath the deep blue skies of Texas.”

  —AARON WATSON, “TEXAS LULLABY”

  When my line jerks again, signaling that I have yet another bass hooked, I actually laugh out loud. This morning’s fishing trip with Trey has been borderline absurd. We arrived at the lake at seven, had Trey’s little Ranger boat in the water by seven thirty, and had our first hits ten minutes after that. By nine we both had our limit, but kept at it catch-and-release. I’d never tell her this, but if Amber weren’t already worth the drive down here, the bass fishing would be. I’ll just add it to the list of things I could get used to about Texas—like the barbeque, which is every bit as good as they claim, the water that is still warm enough for paddleboarding even into the fall, the used bookstores you can get lost in for hours, and the beautiful blonde who gave me a sleepy smile when I kissed her goodbye this morning.

  God bless Texas, y’all.

  I reel in my latest catch, unhook him, and return him to the water quickly. The midday heat means we’re finally seeing a break in the action, so I set my pole aside and dig around in the cooler sitting by my feet to grab a beer. Trey reels in and follows my lead, rustling through the ice and extracting his own beer. He inspects the other cooler contents before letting out a snort.

  “I think I have you to thank for our lunch options today. Normally, when Amber and I come out here together, all she does is slap together a few PB&Js. These fancy-looking subs must be her attempt to impress you by taking a stab at sandwich artistry.” He takes another peek in the cooler. “And there are cookies … which look suspiciously homemade.”

  I tip my ball cap down to better shade my face from the sun and take a sip of my beer.

  “I’m the sandwich artist. The cookies I made a few days ago because your sister was threatening to buy a bag of Chips Ahoy!, and I couldn’t let that happen. She was in charge of packing the cooler, that’s it. Claims she has a patent-worthy system for layering the ice, and I decided not to challenge her on that.”

  Trey chuckles. “Jesus. How in the hell did you two happen?”

  The question is clearly rhetorical given that he’s staring at the shimmering water while shaking his head, so I offer nothing in return. Not that I could explain how Amber and I happened, anyway. Something about us might make sense on paper, but it took us a while to find the proper translation in person, and now that we have, I’m working hard to avoid overthinking it. Trey takes a long slug off of his beer, swallows, then turns his attention to me.

  “I have no smooth segue here, so let’s just get it out there, yeah?”

  I nod, rest my arms on my knees and lean forward, my beer still clasped in one hand. Trey mirrors my posture.

  “She’s not as tough as she seems,” he announces.

  I resist telling him that I’ve already suspected as much. He knows her better than I do, though, which means if he’s offering a few insights, I’d be stupid not to listen. Trey looks over my shoulder to the water.

  “When our parents died, our uncle Cal was the only relative around who would take us in, but he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d look at and think of as a reliable guardian. I mean, he was, he just didn’t fit the part. Think Archie Bunker meets Jeremiah Johnson meets John Wayne, but with a backwoods Texas accent and missing one of his front teeth—that was Cal.”

  My eyes go wide. Trey grins.

  “Exactly. So he had to go to court to keep us out of foster care. But it was my sister who really saved us. She took the stand at ten years old, sitting on a stack of phone books so she could look the judge right in the eye. She sat there, with her hair in these cute pigtails and wearing a totally girly pink dress, and told this old geezer judge that she knew what was best for me, for her, and for us. Then she told him if they split us up and put us into the system, she would do whatever it takes to fix that.” Trey laughs softly. “Basically, she looked like a menacing Strawberry Shortcake with a vengeful side. I think he was scared stiff because he didn’t even ask what she meant by ‘fix that.’ ”

  I conjure up an image of Amber then and it brings a half smile to my face. The same hair, the same sparkle, and the same blue eyes that can melt you or skewer you as she sees fit. But the smile fades when I consider how much pressure she was shouldering then, trying to ensure she and Trey had the best future they could given their shitty circumstances. And despite knowing even at that age Amber could shoulder whatever came her way, the fact that she had to is hard to accept.

  Trey continues with a sigh. “That was Amber hustling, round one. Not much has changed since then. Scrambling and busting ass is what she does. She hustled to keep us together,
did the same to get out of the town we grew up in, and the same to get her show.”

  He shoots me a knowing look. “Hustling” would never be the word I use, but I’ve seen her in action, so I get what he means. I give him a nod.

  “But she also thinks that’s a good way to protect herself. That she can just hustle her way out of anything, unscathed.” Trey takes the final draw on his beer, crushes the can, and tosses it on the floor of the boat. “But losing her show? If she can’t scrabble her way out of this, it will hit her hard. The last thing she needs in her life right now is something or someone else that she can’t count on.”

  The “someone” remark sounds like an opening, so I take it. “Look, Trey—”

  “She’s soft inside,” he cuts in and presses on. “She’s got this loving heart, you know? The woman still does my laundry, and I let her, even though I can obviously do it myself. But she’s been taking care of me since I was seven, and that’s a hard habit for someone with a big heart to let go of. I just want to know if you understand that.”

  He pauses—finally. I think he just said more in the last five minutes than he did this morning and all day yesterday, combined. I answer him quickly, before he decides to start in again.

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Good. Because this isn’t her norm with guys. By this point she’s usually given them a speech about why her show makes it hard to have a long-term relationship, while blinding them with her smile and sending them on their way. But instead she’s parading you around for her friends to meet, like she’s invested in this going somewhere. So tell me you feel the same way, that you aren’t jerking her around.”

  I’m definitely not jerking her around, but giving Trey anything more than that as an answer is tough. On the drive here, I questioned what we’re doing and where we are going, but I squashed the thoughts as quickly as they came. Too much, too soon. If I started to consider real life with all of its sticky practicalities—living states apart, her career, and my shitty history at keeping a woman happy—then this trip might seem like a worthless waste of vacation days I don’t even have.