Legs (One Wild Wish, #1)

by Kelly Siskind

  Okay. The girl knew her wine, and my attraction to her spiked. With the haunts I’d been frequenting, and my bartending gig at Rudy’s Tavern, I hadn’t been around a woman like her in ages. No visible ink, her outfit more conservative than racy. Her straight brown hair would look sexy as hell tangled in my fist. “You sure you don’t want to skip to the mouthfeel part?”

  She smiled freely, the first hint of her letting loose. “I’m still not sure how bitter the aftertaste will be.”

  My answering grin was just as carefree. “I know how to make it sweet, Sunshine.”

  She barely reacted, but her nostrils flared. “Then get me a glass of the Lynmar.”

  “You’ll regret it.”

  “I’m already regretting walking in here.”

  I chuckled, unsure the last time flirting had been this much fun. “How about a bet?”

  “I don’t bet with strangers.”

  “But you have drinks with them?”

  She paused. “What sort of bet?”

  Between her rejection at Vesper and her stiff posture now, sitting beside me was probably pushing her beyond her limits. Limits I wanted to test. The women I’d messed around with weren’t tough to reel in. We were always after the same thing: a fun night between the sheets. The girl at my side was tipsy, but not so drunk she didn’t know what she was after. Something told me if I could unlace her, it would be lightyears beyond fun.

  “You do a blind tasting of the Foursight and the Lynmar,” I said. “If you can’t tell them apart, then I buy you a glass of my choosing, and I get to taste it on your lips. At my place.”

  “That escalated fast.” So did her breathing.

  “Did you want this to go slow?”

  Instead of turning me down, she said, “If I win…if I guess each wine, what do I get?”

  “You tell me.”

  “A winery?”

  I barked out a laugh, but there was nothing funny about her joke. Two years ago, I’d have been able to ante up. “Might be out of my budget. Anything else?”

  She looked at me through lowered lashes. “My place.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  I leaned in nice and slow, her ragged breaths shallowing as I neared her ear. “Sounds like we have a deal.”

  At my instruction, Cameron poured two glasses out of sight while we sat in silence, but my mystery date’s eyes spoke volumes. Her attention lingered on my forearms, traveling over the ink. When I curved my arm around the back of her chair, her gaze swept to my chest, to the chain dipping below my shirt. Its weight felt heavier than usual, or maybe it was her rapt attention.

  She hooked her crossed legs tighter, and all I wanted was to slip my hand between her thighs, over the thick denim, and feel the heat radiating from her.

  Instead I toyed with the ends of her straight hair. I rolled them between my fingers. She nearly purred, and lust pooled in my groin. What would she sound like on the edge of her orgasm?

  When Cameron set down the glasses, she straightened and tried to shake my hand from her hair. I didn’t budge, and she didn’t push. She swirled the glasses, raising each to her nose in turn. A straight nose with a slight slope in the center, those same freckles dotting the ridge. Each inhale sent her upper back into my palm, and when she tipped the first glass for a sip, I slipped my fingers below her hair and cupped her neck.

  The wine never met her lips.

  “That’s cheating,” she said, a quiver tumbling over her shoulders.

  I dragged my thumb down the side of her neck, along the delicate vein that pulsed below the surface. “My hand is nowhere near the wine or your mouth. How exactly am I cheating?”

  “You play dirty.”

  “If this night goes according to plan, you’ll find out just how dirty.”

  Her wineglass shook, but she didn’t shrug me off. Without further delay, she sipped both wines, swishing the liquid around her mouth. She closed her eyes as she swallowed. My hand stayed on her neck, and I had to restrain myself from pressing my lips to the dip at her collarbone, to feel the speed of her pulse.

  She tapped her left glass. “The Lynmar. Cherry cola and cranberry on the front end with a hint of smoke and fig on the finish. Silky texture.” She ran a slender finger over the stem of the right glass. “The Foursight is also stunning, but any winemaker worth their salt can make something beautiful out of the 2013 harvest. The Lynmar proves skill and perseverance bring success.”

  Passion bled through her words, as though she were talking about more than vintages, and her conviction stirred something in my chest. It had been a lifetime since I’d really talked wine with someone, shared my passion. Although I couldn’t stay away from viticulture, I didn’t twist the knife in my gut by attending tastings or trading notes with enthusiasts. The back-and-forth I shared with Cameron was as close to discussions as I’d get.

  “It’s a valid point, but there’s no arguing with excellence. 2013 bred excellence. Being the best of a shitty year doesn’t make for the kind of wine that brings your taste buds to their knees.” I turned to Cameron. “Is she right?”

  “She is. The lady knows her wine.”

  Like I needed to find her more attractive. “Looks like you win. Shall we get a cab?”

  Her shoulders hitched back toward her ears, the pulse below my finger revving, and an adorable, nervous laugh bubbled out of her. She grabbed the flyer at my side and scanned it, a reminder I should tuck it in my pocket before leaving.

  She toyed with the corner of the page. “Just so you know, I never do this sort of thing.”

  That had me frowning. She’d walked into the bar looking for me, or something I could offer her. A craving I felt in spades, but I’d only go there if she was all in. “I need an elaboration.”

  “The one-night-stand thing. I don’t do them. I mean, I’ve had casual sex, but it’s never happened on the first date. Or the second. Not that this is a date. Obviously. But the only reason I’m here is because my friends peer pressured me, and there was a fourth glass of wine, and Cameron messaged one of them that you don’t have children locked in your basement.”

  Mental note to thank Cameron, and damn if her honesty wasn’t refreshing as hell. Candor that had her pulling away, the promise of unravelling her inhibitions slipping through my fingers. I’m not sure why I walked into Vesper earlier. I’d avoided women like her the past two years, for good reason. But her innocence, potential dirty mouth, and how she savored her wine had me tied in knots.

  “Are you attracted to me?” I asked.

  She angled her knees my way, a blush creeping up her freckled chest. “Yes.”

  “That’s half the battle. The other half is this.” I placed my free hand on her knee, gentle pressure, the antithesis of the fire building under my skin. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve wanted to rip a woman’s clothing off her so badly. If you let me, I’ll have you relaxed with one touch.”

  Her shoulders trembled. “Because you do this often?”

  “The one-night thing?” She nodded, and I held her gaze. I didn’t lie to women; I knew how devastating lies could be. She either got on board with the little I had to offer, or I’d let her walk away. “I’ve done this, yes. If I have an itch, I scratch it. But it’s not a weekly occurrence. By the looks of things, I’d wager you’re itchy as hell.” One of my hands was still on her neck, the other on her knee, a connection I hated to relinquish. I dragged my thumb under the edge of her jaw. “Bet I could ease the burn for you.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, her long lashes almost blond toward their tips. “How about a rule?”

  “I’m game.”

  “No names. No strings. One night, and that’s it. If I know I’ll never see you again, I might be able to relax and enjoy myself. And even though I won your little game, I’d prefer your place. More wine will help, too.”

  I’d normally have talked and joked less with a woman before taking her home, but I would have learned her name. Basic conversation. No fun bets and
intriguing wine discussions.

  I could live without names, though, and no strings was the only way I rolled. “Done. I still need to know why you shouted ‘eating pussy’ at Vesper.”

  She shook her head at the ceiling. “My friend and I were bitching about guys and how much easier it would be if we were lesbians. Then we started talking about the logistics of it, but the music was loud and we were shouting when it shut off, hence the incident.”

  Again she had me wanting to know more, ask more. “What was the result of this conversation? Are you curious? Interested in experimenting with women?”

  “You sure are nosy for a one-night stand.”

  “It’s not every day a woman shouts ‘pussy’ in a club.”

  “Alcohol and I have a love-hate relationship.” She paused, attention fixed on her fingers until she smirked. “I said that if I were with a woman, I’d probably freeze up.”

  “Because?” I was taunting her, testing how far I could push her boundaries.

  She sipped her wine, her nose lingering in the glass. The rim was barely out of her lips when she said, “Change of topic, please.”

  Those boundaries wouldn’t bend easily, but I enjoyed a challenge. I leaned in close and dragged my nose along her cheek, breathing deep along the way. She smelled like the ocean—mint and jasmine mingling with her arousal. “Whatever you want, Sunshine.”

  Three

  Rachel

  I attempted to peel my eyes open, but my lids were dry and gritty. The movement sent bursts of pain through my body. Everything ached—my head, my back, my calves all throbbed in unison. Maybe I’d been hit by a Mack Truck, or bulldozed by a derailing train. Possibly dropped from an airplane to test if girls dumb enough to follow strange men into bars could withstand the plummet to Earth.

  The light streaming through the window made me wince, another sharp stab slicing through my temples. I fought the urge to melt back into the mattress and blinked. Or tried, at least. My eyelids were glued to my contacts.

  A few thousand blinks later, I rolled my tongue around my gums. My mouth was thick and stale, like I’d eaten one of Ainsley’s vegan desserts.

  As I took in my surroundings—the unfamiliar ceiling, the too-soft mattress, the closet with more clothing on the floor than on the hangers, the large body beside me—the dryness in my mouth amplified, sourness following. I clamped a hand over my lips to prevent the violent reaction churning in my gut from decorating the floor.

  Some heavy swallowing and a few breaths through my nose later, the feeling subsided, but not the horror. I was as stark as naked got, and from the looks of the tattooed back beside me, so was my bedmate. Too embarrassed to glance Bad Boy’s way, I assessed my aches and pains, and the tenderness between my thighs. Sex had definitely happened.

  In this bed. With me. And that man.

  Hopefully that man.

  For all I knew, there could have been other players involved.

  Lying as still as possible, I racked my brain, desperate to remember details of the evening. I squinted hard enough to increase my headache, but only snippets came back.

  Me spilling wine? Us on the floor?

  I was pretty sure laughing happened, too, but no images of his body hovering over mine resurfaced, or of him pushing into me, or me riding him, or us ripping off each other’s clothes. I had no idea where his apartment even was.

  At least the night of the Dildo Incident, I didn’t black out. The recollection was hazy, but I remembered traipsing down the street with Ainsley and Gwen and dragging them into a sex shop. We cackled at the toys, and some sections of time were blurry, but the part with me running out the door, waving a massive dildo, screaming, “I have a penis,” was kind of hard to forget.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the details of my night with Bad Boy.

  I didn’t know his name. That part was clear, along with my one-night-stand rules that had led us here. So was sitting in the bar, him all know-it-all about his wines, pushing me to drink what he deemed acceptable. As was the masculine energy radiating off him as he’d promised to relax me with one touch. A touch lost in translation courtesy of Reckless Rachel.

  How many drinks did we have? Did I have an orgasm afterward? Multiple?

  God, I hoped we used condoms.

  Gingerly, so as not to wake the guy who may have been a Hall of Fame Fuck, I slipped out from the covers and stood. I nearly fell back down. Pain. Lots of pain tightening around my scalp, and tenderness on my tailbone. More pain than my twenty-first birthday and the ten million tequila shots. My tongue felt swollen. I teetered, and the room swayed. When I remembered my naked body, I got over my nausea and hauled ass into the bathroom.

  Where I promptly saw four condoms in the trash.

  Four.

  A rush of pride swelled at the sight. I totally rocked Bad Boy’s sex world. But those condoms hadn’t necessarily come from us. Not all, at least. He’d seemed honest in the bar, admitting he’d taken a number of women to bed. That bed. The bed I’d slept on. Naked. I shivered, suddenly itchy all over. Remembered games of catching cooties as a kid had me wrinkling my nose. That I could remember.

  But not fucking Bad Boy four times.

  I splashed water on my face, but it did little to dull my headache or sober me up. I was still drunk as a skunk. Where did that saying even come from? Was it because my breath stunk? Because I could clear a room with one word?

  I grabbed Bad Boy’s toothpaste and used my finger to scrub my tongue and teeth and gums, all the while eyeing his meager toiletries: razor (which clearly hadn’t been used in a while), shaving cream (ditto), and a toothbrush. My sink with its plethora of moisturizers and eye creams had girl written all over it.

  I sucked back as much water as possible and grabbed a towel from his hook. The blue cotton was clean and plush. It smelled like leather and clove and a hint of musk. I might never recall what went down between Bad Boy and me, but my regret over the situation ebbed. At least I’d done something fun. Something out of character.

  Something to start my twenty-seventh year with a bang.

  Unfortunately, my attraction to him brought with it painful memories, too. Of my time with Gabe, which led to my father’s last words, forever saved on my phone.

  I shook my head. This was just one night. One wild fling. Nothing more. Except an uncomfortable feeling welled up, and something hazy niggled at me. One of those blurry memories, linked to the birthday wish maybe—my resolution to find a fulfilling career—but the source of my dread remained obscured.

  Clutching the towel around my chest, I shrugged off my worry and eased open the bathroom door. I tiptoed into the bedroom. My clothes were strewn over the hardwood floor, as though we’d been harried and frantic to remove them, and the sheets were a mess. God, I wished I remembered what had happened. My gaze cut to Bad Boy, one last peek before leaving and never seeing him again. This time I looked.

  He’d shifted since I’d gotten up. The covers hovered around his knees, the ends of his black hair curled at the base of his neck. His back and ass were displayed for prime viewing, and what a view. Ink swept over the grooves and creases of his toned physique, some images reminiscent of the Greek art I’d studied during my I’m going to be a curator! phase. He was lean but fit, the boxing gloves hanging from his wooden dresser likely the source of his build. With one arm tucked below his pillow and the other thrown in front of his face, the ridges of his ribs and hips stood out, so delicious I barely refrained from crawling on the bed and running my fingers over every dip and curve.

  My attention moved to his ass, and the red marks on his left butt cheek—four marks, long and thin, that could have come from my nails. Wow. My fingers tingled as though they remembered gripping that toned flesh to force him deeper. The tenderness between my thighs tingled, too, but the longer I stared, the more the lust gathering in my core curdled, and that dread returned. Heavier this time. Foreboding so thick my nausea resurfaced as a lost memory teased me.

&
nbsp; His ass. Something happened with his ass. No. Not his ass. His butt crack? Jesus, what the hell had happened? The memory advanced and receded, out of my grasp. I blinked and refocused, no longer scoping his chiseled form. All I could see was his butt, knowing deep, deep down that something bad went down.

  Something very bad.

  Then it clicked, the rush so forceful all air left my lungs.

  Not his ass. My ass. Oh, God. Still clutching the towel around my chest, I scooped up my clothes and purse and ran from his room, falling to my knees the second I was out. I dumped the contents of my purse on the floor, and snatched up my phone, all the while whispering, “God, no. Nonononononono. Please, no.”

  But there was no undoing what I’d done.

  I pulled up my sent emails, and there it was, what might as well have been a neon billboard that said "You Are So Screwed." I’d emailed my sexual-harassing boss a photo of my butt crack with the subject line: Shove your crappy job where the sun don’t shine.

  Holy mother of God.

  Stupid alcohol and that stupid resolution to quit my job. Even worse was that Bad Boy must have taken the photo, because my two hands, each holding up a middle finger on either side of my butt crack (seriously?), couldn’t have snapped the selfie to end all selfies.

  Unfreakingbelievable.

  Never again would I drink a glass of wine. Not a drop. Never let Reckless Rachel out to play. Bad Boy should never have happened. I should never have made that wish.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  I stared ahead, not seeing a thing. Shock leached my energy. Hunching lower and lower, I spun the possibilities, anything to undo what I’d done. Set fire to our office building? Divert attention from my idiocy by instigating World War Three? Enter the Witness Protection Program?

  It was Saturday, and my boss never worked on weekends. In fact, he’d mentioned having issues with his server, something about incoming messages disappearing…which meant he wouldn’t have seen my ass yet. He might not see it at all. The room swayed, a slow undulation—the wine still swimming through my veins—but my spirits rose.