by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2

by Sigal Ehrlich

  I consider his words and stand. “I’ll just get my things.” When I release the laptop from the docking station and reach for my phone, Adrian smiles smugly to himself and walks out of the office. I’m distracted by a text alert coming from my phone. Leaning against my desk, I read the message in the CHICKENS group text.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Oh, fabulous chickens... it’s that time of the month—monthly challenge time, and I hold all the power! Bwahaha!

  I crack a smile, anticipating the usual banter that doesn’t take long to arrive.

  Anna to CHICKENS: I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t like the sound of it. What do you have up your little kinky sleeve this time, Panda?

  Kayla to CHICKENS: Try to contain the crazy, Panda. Consider yourself warned that some of us are in a mood.

  I snort laughter, adding my little contribution to the festivities.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Why so dark Drummer girl?

  Kayla to CHICKENS: Barbie, mood, don’t push it.

  Victoria to CHICKENS: Drummer girl, your gruffness gives me all the feels.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: Kayla Green and Victoria Nielsen, stop flirting; you’re taking my spotlight!

  I grin at the screen.

  Kayla to CHICKENS: Spotlight back on you, spew it already.

  And we wait for Pandora to declare the next challenge. It’s a thing we do, taking turns in coming up with challenges for the group that range from funny to ludicrous.

  Pandora to CHICKENS: So, the monthly challenge is going to be a bit different this time. Pencil in Saturday noon till evening. We’re going on a little road trip. Dress code, casual and better bring rubber boots. That’s all you’re getting. Ta-ta!

  Adrian’s head pops in the room again. He steps inside, hand dropping to his hip in disapproval. He doesn’t leave this time. Instead, he steps back to lean on the doorframe, watching me with a little attitude, making sure I follow through.

  “I’m leaving. I’m leaving,” I say to my bag, chucking my phone, some papers, and a diary inside. I wave my car keys at him.

  Chuckling, Adrian walks to his desk, grabbing his stuff.

  Thirty minutes later, I close the door and kick off my heels, blessing Adrian for pushing me out of the office. As ever, home instills an immediate sense of tranquility and solace, especially after a long day at work where I’m in a perpetual combative mode. I take off my jacket and hang it in the entryway closet, thinking about what to have for dinner or if I should have dinner at all. A knock on the door makes me jump and throw my hand to my heart.

  Frowning, I check the peephole, expecting one of the neighbors, but my heart leaps for joy when I realize who’s standing on the other side. I make sure to wipe off the excitement from my face before opening the door.

  “One of the neighbors just went out,” Ricky explains how he got into the building.

  “Hi to you too,” I say. His lips twitch in response. Still keeping him out, holding the door half-open, I ask, “You usually show up at people’s doorsteps unannounced?”

  “No, just people I genuinely want to see.” When I keep the door half-closed, he adds, “Should I leave then?” His eyes crinkle at the sides.

  I send my head forward to peek at the brown bag in his hand. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Dinner.”

  Mustering all possible strength not to reveal my immense delight to see him, I take a step back and open the door. “You can come in, then.”

  Ricky shakes his head with a side-smile, stepping in. He kicks off his unlaced, black boots and walks to the kitchen like he owns the place. I’d be a complete liar if I said I hated how comfortable he seems.

  I watch him as he deposits his helmet and the paper bag on the counter, then keep watching him as he turns, walks over to me, sends his hand to the back of my head, and pulls me into a mini version of last night’s inferno kiss. My head spins a little when he draws back, nipping at my lip, and says, “Hey, babe.”

  Frozen in place with the fire he ignited in me, I follow him with my stare, a little dumbfounded as he leaves the kitchen and comes back from the vicinity of the main door sans his leather jacket and helmet.

  “I’m going to start on dinner,” he says idly. “You wanna open a bottle of wine?”

  For a whole moment, I watch him, frowning, a bit lost. This is entirely new territory for me. A guy inviting himself into my home, for starters. Besides Felipo, whom I’ve known forever, guys tend to understand my unspoken rule about showing up at my door unannounced.

  I feel a little unsettled having someone invade my sanctuary unannounced, not to mention dictating what I’ll eat for dinner. And if I’m frank, there’s something a little unnerving about the way he looks at me, like I belong to him. And the strangest thing of it all, I don’t hate it. I shake it off and step over to grab a bottle of wine. I reach for a bottle opener, watching Ricky from the corner of my eye as he unloads the contents of the bag onto the counter.

  I bring my hand to my hip, studying the assembly of groceries. “You said you brought dinner.”

  He turns to look at me in question. “Yeah?”

  I point at the items littering my counter. “This is not dinner.”

  Ricky snorts like he finds me cute. “Ingredients to make dinner.”

  “You’re so weird,” I say and move on to release the cork from the bottle in my hand. “Dinner comes in containers.”

  “I’m the weird one,” he murmurs to himself.

  I walk over to the opposite corner of the counter to set the wine aside and get two glasses, saying, “Alexa, play mix list.” At the same time, Ricky turns on the faucet to wash his hands. A few things still need minor tweaking in my apartment, as every new property does, and the very noisy faucet is one of them. My command gets a little swallowed by the squeaky faucet, and when Alexa responds, it takes me a little too long to realize what she says. Somehow mix list turns into wish list, and the smart device starts from the top.

  “You have twenty-five items on your wish list.” Only when it starts reciting the actual list do I make sense of what I’m hearing. “Number twenty-five, sleeping with Ricky. Number twenty-four, going back to Jutland—”

  “Alexa,” I yelp, and the damn device pauses, waiting for my command. A little thing I added to the list to amuse myself last night comes back to bite me in the butt with a vengeance. The guy making me dinner halts at once, dropping the knife to the cutting board with a little thud.

  Ricky turns to look at me with arms folded across his chest, his lips tipped at the side. He cocks his head; his eyes crinkle at the sides. “No need for wishing, babe. All you have to do is ask.” He then adds, “Or breathe.”

  Enough’s enough with this stupidly attractive guy thinking he has me wrapped around his finger. It’s time I took back control over whatever this is between us. I fold my arms across my chest, face him, and say, “Take your shirt off.”

  His surprise is a blink-and-you-miss-it fleeting expression on his face. He quickly recovers and wordlessly moves his hands to the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion.

  A hallelujah chorus is starting in my head to the sight before me. The broad chest, defined muscles, and full-sleeve tattoo dominating his right arm, with a beautifully detailed compass covering the shoulder.

  Bringing his pointer finger forward, he gestures for me to remove my shirt, rasping, “Quid pro quo, babe.”

  Holding his stare, I slowly unbutton my shirt, yanking it out of my skirt and letting it fall to the floor. Ricky’s smoldering eyes run over me.

  “Take off your pants,” I command next.

  His hand moves to his fly, and he jerks the buttons open. I gasp at the hint of bare skin under his jeans. He drops his pants to the floor, not even flinching, standing in front of me naked. Commando it is then.

  The wealth of beauty and gifted anatomy makes my breath hitch. My entire body responds to the sight of him, bare before me.

  “Babe, your skirt,” he says, and it’s li
ke he blew warm breath on my most sensitive spots because I’m on fire. I move my hand to my lower back and unloop the button, then slide the zipper down. Under Ricky’s heated gaze, I shimmy out of my skirt.

  He lets out a curse under his breath, slowly trailing his eyes from my lacy, black bra down the garter belt set high on my thigh. “Bra,” he demands. Ever so slowly, I do as I’m told, unclasping my bra and slowly drag the thin fabric down my arms.

  We stand on opposite sides of the kitchen, staring, drinking each other in.

  “Let your hair down,” he commands. I do as told, removing the hair tie. “Shake it loose.” Once again, I do as he asks, letting my hair fall just over my shoulders.

  He licks his lower lip into his mouth, beckoning me by crooking his finger.

  I shake my head, wordlessly telling him, you’re not running this show.

  Silent, staring me off, he walks over to where I stand. He dips his face to my neck, taking a lungful. He hovers just above my skin, causing me to shiver with want. I let out a strangled yelp when he sends his hands to my waist and sits me on the breakfast bar. The cold surface bites my skin when his mouth covers mine, taking me by surprise.

  And he kisses me, just like last night when he nearly made me lose my sanity. I shamelessly moan into his mouth, my body begging to be touched. His mouth leaves mine, only to trail moist, scorching kisses down my neck, to my collarbone, to the valley between my breasts, ever so slowly descending, teasing, barely touching. He’s driving me mad with want.

  When he drops to his knees before me, spreading my thighs with his hands, I watch him enthralled, my breaths escaping in shallow gasps. He nears his mouth an inch closer, and I can’t control how my body shakes with anticipation. Feathering his lips along my heat, he looks up at me with blazes in his brown eyes, and I know the sight will be burned into my memory always.

  When he finally opens his mouth and tastes me, his name comes out from my lips in a breath. I thought I had the upper hand, but I find myself at his total mercy. I watch his tattooed fingers holding my pale thighs, sliding just under the garter as he brings me to the highest levels of desire, till I climax so hard my entire body throbs. With my hand, I press his head to me, yelling his name as I uncontrollably spasm against his mouth.

  And when I slump like there are no bones left in my limbs, he’s there to hold me as I slowly land back from an intoxicating high. I lean my face on his pecs with my eyes closed, and when I blink them open and look up at him, he looks predatory. I send my hand to touch him and gasp at the feel of the massive, silky heat in my hand.

  “I don’t have a condom on me,” he says in a graveled voice.

  I don’t have any lying around either, but then again, we don’t really need one. However, it’s not something I’m about to discuss with him, now or ever.

  “I’m on the pill,” I say, and his look at me becomes even more smoldering.

  “You sure?” he asks. His stare searches mine. “I’m clean.”

  I nod, guiding him into me. Eyes not leaving mine, he pushes inside, and we both release a hum of relief. He slowly draws back and thrusts deeper, letting out a groan that makes me want him even more. He sends his hands to my hips and aligns me at an angle so that his next thrusts will reach deeper. Currents of heat and pleasure run inside me each time he does, and it’s almost too much.

  He moves one of his hands to hold me by my shoulder and continues his delicious assault. He moves in me, from time to time, leaning in to kiss me or suck on my breasts; it’s a whole-body sensory overload. I drop my eyes to watch our connection, finding it incredibly sensual. When I lift them, it’s to Ricky watching me, transcendently.

  Yet again, in the space of twenty minutes or so, he brings me to a panting, heady, euphoric version of myself that is even new to me. Right after, I cry his name and fall apart again.

  He thrusts harder and deeper. “Fuck, Vic.” His voice is strained when he groans into my mouth with his release. He holds me near, catching his breath.

  Under his embrace, I feel exposed and vulnerable and mostly out of my depth.

  Clearly, it’s not my first time. I have more than a few notches on my proverbial bedpost, but this time . . . I’m washed with new feelings that leave me bare and swamped with new terrifying emotions. I’m not in control of my feelings, not by a long shot.

  Needing to run for cover or pretend I’m not entirely shaken by what I’m feeling, I draw away from his arms, extracting myself out of his hold.

  I hop off the table and collect my scattered clothes. “Very well then,” I say, not looking at him, afraid he’ll see through my guise. “We’ve scratched this itch.” Putting on a casual expression, I finally dare to look at him.

  Ricky narrows his eyes at me, gauging me, seeming unpleased by my little dismissal of what just happened between us. “It wasn’t scratching an itch, babe. More like a beginning of a new insatiable obsession,” he says—the exact words I don’t want to hear from him. It’s all fine if that’s what I think in my head. I don’t need him to voice it.

  With the pile of clothes huddled to my chest, already hasting away, I say, “I’ll be right back.”

  I close the bedroom door behind me and enter the dressing room. I switch on the light and glance at my nicely stacked clothes and rows of shoes. Twisting my mouth, I open the lingerie drawer and take out a pair of silk panties. After I grab a pair of skinny black jeans and a sheer white shirt, I head to the en-suite bathroom. I turn on the shower and lean my hip on the vanity, waiting for the water to warm. I stare vacantly ahead, replaying in my head what just transpired in the kitchen.

  We’ve scratched this itch. Laughable really. It takes all of my willpower not to march back out there and demand an encore. Just thinking about Ricky causes a tidal wave of heat to spiral below my waist. And what’s worse, it’s not just the mind-blowing sex. It’s everything he is. What he makes me feel. From the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew he was trouble.

  Mist climbs up the mirror, and the air in the room becomes stuffy with heat, yet the thing I do next is entirely inexplicable. Instead of getting under it, I turn off the water and shrug on the jeans and shirt, deciding to hold on to his scent on me, at least for the night. I comb my hair into a ponytail in front of the fogged-up mirror.

  I’m on the pill comes back to taunt me. I wince at the insidious words that came out of my mouth. Who are you? I wordlessly ask the opaque face looking back at me in the mirror. I shake my head and go back to my guest.

  “What are you making?” I casually ask when I enter the kitchen. Ricky is fully dressed, busying himself at the stove.

  He throws me a glance over his shoulder. “Salad’s on the table. Omelets are almost done. There’s bread and butter in the bag.”

  I step over to the bag and take out the bread, butter, another box of eggs, an assortment of veggies, and a few blocks of cheese. “What’s with all the excess?”

  “Babe, after the horrors I saw in your fridge last night—” He doesn’t end the sentence, not that he needs to. My fridge’s usual state is not something to be proud of; things go in and never come out unless it’s to the trash way past due. I hate that something as silly as the state of my fridge demonstrated his need to take care of me. I hate it. And I love it at the same time. Wordless, my mind occupied in thought, I put the things in the fridge and move on to slice the bread.

  Not long after, we find ourselves sitting at the breakfast bar, the same one we christened shy of thirty minutes ago, having a light, delicious breakfast for dinner.

  Ricky forks a piece of the egg but leaves it on the plate, eyes lifting to me. “Thanks for trusting me.” I frown, and he explains. “It’s not that I’ve been celibate lately, but I promise you, I always use protection.”

  Once again, needing to bring our thing back to the casual, fun territory, I scoff. “I don’t think that you were born celibate.”

  His lips quirk. “Let’s just pretend you didn’t say that.” He chuckles, and I can’t help but
scoff at my ridiculous jab.

  “I meant”—I gesture with my hand over his utterly attractive self—“what you manifest doesn’t read celibacy.”

  He chuckles, but it lacks humor. He absentmindedly scratches the deep scar ornamenting his cheekbone. Frowning, he fetches his phone. I follow his actions, intrigued. After fiddling with the device for a few beats, he wordlessly hands it to me. He clears his throat. “So, apparently, this thing’s been circulating since last night.”

  I put the fork down and take the phone from him. It’s a YouTube video of his band at Poison and Wine from last night. I notice the mad number of views and look at him. “Talk about a massive wave of popularity.”

  “Where does it stand now?” he asks.

  I glance at the screen again and bring my attention back to him. “A little less than two and a half million.” I pause. “Wow, that’s not just a wave of popularity; that’s a tsunami.”

  He covers his mouth with his hand, tugging at his bottom lip.

  “Do you know who took the video?”

  He nods, seeming in thought.

  “Well, whoever it was, looks like he’s a huge fan . . . of you. Looks like your band isn’t even in the video. It’s all you. ”

  He winces; his eyes crawl to mine. He seems utterly uncomfortable in his skin as he hooks his pointer finger over his necklace, moving it slightly side to side. “I met with a talent agent this morning. She’s the one who took this video and uploaded it.”

  I study him, curious, waiting for him to go on.

  “She works with some of the biggest names in the industry.”

  “Why do you look tortured telling me this then?”

  “She wants to sign just me, not the others.”

  “Okay,” I say, realizing the source of his unease. “What if you insist they’re a part of the deal?”

  He shakes his head. “She told me point-blank, it’s nonnegotiable.” He lifts a glass of water to his lips. With a deep frown, like he’s about to deliver a doomsday prophecy, he says, “She’s talking to Tyler Lee Adams’ people, trying to tailor a Christmas collaboration.”