“Six. That’s how many orgasms I gave you, Sunshine.”
Her brown eyes widened then fell heavy. “There were only four condoms in the trash.”
“You counted?”
“I noticed. And my name isn’t Sunshine.”
My first glimpse of her tonight was a reminder to keep my distance, her ability to unbalance me dangerous. But the contradiction of her wildness concealed below her measured appearance was too tempting. If she couldn’t remember what had gone down between us, I’d have to remind her. “Sure it is, Sunshine. Unless you prefer Ray. And since we never formally introduced ourselves, I’m Jimmy, and I don’t need my cock to give a woman an orgasm.”
Her breasts strained against her top, the fabric quivering with each inhale. My naughty ray of sunshine. I lingered for a beat, long enough to run my nose up her ear.
Then I took off, unsure what the hell I’d just started.
Six
Rachel
I was in serious trouble. I’d debated not returning for the second round of the contest, anything to avoid Jimmy and his six orgasms. Yet here I was, pacing in front of Crush, walking toward and away from the door at a dizzying pace.
When I saw him last week, the same vertigo had struck—the urge to turn and speed walk away—but I’d stood my ground. I wouldn’t let one man, and one silly night, keep me from fulfilling my destiny, and this contest was destined. The more I played it over, the more convinced I’d become: the blackout and the shift in the air after making our wishes was the supernatural at work. A magical twist of fate. My father, probably tired of watching me flounder in career hell, must have arranged it.
Which meant I had to prove myself worthy, finally shed my stench of failure and stick to a rewarding career. My mother would help me financially if asked, but my father had paid his own way through college to become an electrical engineer and had worked hard to support us. I yearned to be strong, like him. Self-sufficient, like him. Maybe I’d even meet a nice guy in the class.
If Jimmy and his six orgasms didn’t interfere.
Which meant I needed reinforcements. Gwen could read me like nobody’s business and always called my bluffs, but Ainsley was my go-to for advice on how to ditch men.
She answered after three rings. “Men are assholes.”
“You and Gwen share that sentiment.” I wasn’t far behind. One particular asshole, who for sure lied about a certain number of orgasms, was likely awaiting my arrival.
“My client had me order this, like, over-the-top gift for his wife. Insane diamond necklace. Then he had me buy flowers for his mistress. Watching men like him cheat on their wives is enough to change the Pope’s views on marriage.” Ainsley didn’t mention her ex, Brandon, and how he’d have fit into that boys’ club, but her disdain embittered each word.
“Disgusting assholes,” I agreed.
“It pays the bills. But forget my drama, what’s up?”
I hugged my waist and focused on the motorcycle parked on the street. Smooth leather. Black trim. I’d always wanted to ride one, not on the back like I had with Gabe. Just me and the air in my face, so I could feel all that power buzzing up my arms. My mother, however, would swallow her tongue—which is also what would happen if she saw the man messing with my head. “I need boy advice.”
“Another date with a Mr. Potato Head lookalike?”
“No, thank God. Remember the guy from our birthday? The one with the tattoos?”
“Are you kidding? I still have dreams about him, of the sexy variety.”
“Yeah, well, turns out he’s in the sommelier contest, and he’s taunting me with memories of our night together. He’s probably full of it, but I’m not sure how to handle things.”
“You don’t want to handle him?”
If it were only that easy. When he’d acknowledged the Butt Crack Incident, humiliation had burned through me. Crawling into a hole (stocked with wine), never to be seen again, would have been preferable to sitting next to the man who’d witnessed that stunt. Except he had gone out of his way to change the topic and joke about the Colon’s name, easing my awkwardness.
He was also hot as sin. A lethal combination. “I have to see this guy every week, maybe for a couple of months. Just tell me how to turn him down so I don’t make it weird.”
She barely took a breath. “Tell him you have a boyfriend. That you broke up briefly, hence the hookup, but you got back together. If he takes it well, thank him for understanding. If he doesn’t, tell him the shitty sex made you realize how much you missed your man.”
And that’s why I called Ainsley. “You are a dating guru.”
“It’s a gift,” she said, and we hung up.
Pumped, I tugged down my blouse—black instead of white, my gray skirt a cinch to mix and match. (The beauty of the nine-piece ensemble!) A roll of my shoulders later, I marched into Crush, head high, determination propelling me forward. With half the group eliminated, the day’s tasting was in the cellar below. Wafts of wet stone hit me, followed by dark fruit and that earthy scent that clung to wine cellars. It smelled of nights organizing bottles with my dad.
Two long harvest tables filled the center of the stone room, three glass walls of wine surrounding them.
And Jimmy.
He sat in a far corner, on his own, one ankle hooked over his knee, the tilt of his shoulders the picture of effortless cool. The tattoos, those worn boots, that scruff just long enough to tickle, not scratch—the man oozed dude.
A dude who was intent upon me.
I clutched my purse against my hip, his potent gaze unrelenting. I reviewed Ainsley’s advice. Boyfriend. Bad sex. Shut the man down. All I could do was return his stare, my knees weakening by the second. Did his full lips taste as delicious as they looked? Had he growled when my nails bit into his ass? No memories replied. But he did.
Bad Boy held up six fingers.
Unbelievable.
I swiveled away, the humidity in the room descending between my breasts. Unlike Ainsley, I wasn’t gifted with ample cleavage and burlesque curves. I was long-limbed and thin, no definition to my arms. Jimmy’s rapt attention put the sexy in my step. I moved to the glass wall, my back to him, a sway to my hips that hadn’t been there before. Like I was a thing to be admired. Like I could grip a stripper pole and blow the roof off a club.
A man had never made me feel so desirable with nothing but his eyes. But I was a relationship girl, and Jimmy was a bad, bad boy. I’d been down that road before.
He was also competition.
To quell the heat in my blood, I focused on the wall of bottles in front of me. The breadth of the collection was astounding, new and old world wines, each worth more than my savings. They even had a few bottles from Tamber Bey. I’d gnaw off my right arm to taste a drop of that Cabernet.
There were also a number of bottles I didn’t recognize, enough that my confidence waned. At the first tasting, my nerves hadn’t bested me. Discerning the whites poured was easy enough, and the hopefuls vying for the position were so varied my limited experience hadn’t been a hindrance.
The stakes had changed.
In one quick move, Alonzo had eliminated over half the group, leaving only those with a nose for wine and the drive to win. I wasn’t sure where I fell on the spectrum.
Sensing the room filling up, I turned to find a seat. Jimmy’s attention had shifted from me to the wall of wines at the back, his steely eyes broody. Or maybe sad. I may not have remembered our night together, but the bleakness of his apartment was hard to forget. His forlorn expression now was difficult to ignore, too. The few seats around him were empty, the other contestants keeping their distance, scornful looks tossed his way. As though his tattoos were contagious.
At sixteen, I’d seen a Jane Goodall documentary and declared myself a future primatologist. I’d spend hours at the zoo, staring at the chimpanzee enclosure, taking important notes: Murphy smacked Daisy’s head. When I realized actual documentation involved rain forests and bugs
the size of Texas, I aborted the plan, but not before befriending one chimpanzee. Sir Lancelot would spend his days hunched in a corner, his back turned to the world. My best friend, Elise, had just moved away, and the group we’d eaten lunch with decided my hair wasn’t stylish enough or my shoes weren’t hip enough. They left me to fend for myself. Sixteen-year-old super villains.
Sir Lancelot had understood me. I’d tell him about my crush on Ross Zuckerman, and he’d pick at his fur. The day he held out a branch toward me, I cried.
Jimmy might have oozed dude and sexual confidence, but there was no denying the loneliness beneath his tough exterior, and Ainsley’s advice drifted toward the shadows. I could have sat in the empty chair near me, put an end to whatever game Jimmy and his six orgasms were playing, but watching life through a one-way mirror wasn’t fun for anyone.
Before I could overthink my decision, I rounded the tables and sat next to him.
He crowded my space, his elbow brushing mine. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”
“I wanted a front row seat for your elimination.”
He edged closer. “Hope you don’t cry when you’re cut, Sunshine. I don’t deal well with criers.”
Maybe I should have pondered my seat choice longer. But his use of that silly nickname amused me, our banter more fun than irritating. “I don’t deal well with cocky men who talk to mask their incompetence.”
“If you remembered our night, you’d know my cockiness is justified.”
“If it were that good, I wouldn’t have blocked it out.” He was toying with me, using my memory lapse to get under my skin. So why was I smiling? Biting back my grin, I removed two pens from my purse and set them perpendicular to the table’s edge.
“Too much of a good thing can kick you into shock,” he said.
“Too much ego suffocates brain function.”
He leaned into my side. “It wasn’t my brain that fucked you.”
Whoa. My witty reply dried up, all moisture heading south. Since our last meeting, zoning out had become habit. The memory of his nose in my hair after the tasting, his lips by my ear, the word cock whispered for only me to hear, had played on repeat. Each time, my irritation rose—frustration that I couldn’t remember details of the night in question.
And Bad Boy knew it.
Time for a topic change. “The Nose looks like stiff competition.”
I nodded toward a contestant, but Jimmy’s focus lingered on my face. He had deep blue eyes with hints of steel. Intense eyes. I liked the attention, enjoyed our flirtatious joking and our proximity, how his body heat mingled with mine. I liked it all too much.
Taking my cue, he searched out the Nose. I’d spotted him at the first round and his intimidation factor was still high. His navy vest and tie had country club written all over them, his gaunt cheeks and sharp chin debonair. His nose was the most worrisome. A nose that large and straight had the power to unlock scents from any glass.
Jimmy whistled. “That is one mighty schnoz.”
“The Wizard of Schnoz,” I said and cringed. My father and I had played this game, swapping words in movie titles, both of us cracking up. Men didn’t often get my silly sense of humor.
Instead of raising an eyebrow, Jimmy played along. “The Schnoz of Wrath.”
“Rebel without a Schnoz.”
“The Naked Schnoz.”
I snorted. “The Schnozinator.”
He laughed then, a deep, rumbling sound that curled around me. My answering cackle wasn’t as smooth. I clamped a hand over my mouth, and he gripped my thigh. “Don’t hide that sound, Ray. Your laugh is a thing of beauty.”
And the way he said it? Ainsley’s husky voice made every giggle rich and sexy. Gwen’s humor tended toward the sarcastic, but her laughter was musical. My outbursts were unattractive. Then Jimmy touched my thigh, told me to embrace it, and a hazy calm trickled below my skin, as though I’d enjoyed a glass of wine.
Unfortunately, once Jimmy gripped my thigh, the bastard didn’t let go. His fingers tightened, and my blood rushed, a steady throb congregating below my skirt. This wasn’t the light buzz after a sip of wine. This was a shot of tequila, a lick of salt, and a splash of lime.
Feverish, I gripped my seat.
Alonzo walked down the stairs, and all chatter in the room vanished. Jimmy’s hand stayed put, tingles radiating from that point of contact. I was a hormonal mess.
Alonzo, with his goatee and gold rings, had an air of hustler about him, but he commanded the room, outlining the hour ahead. Few words registered. Jimmy’s hand inched up my thigh, and I shifted forward. I shouldn’t have shifted. I should have slapped his hand away and blurted my boyfriend story. My traitorous body did nothing. His focus was on our host, his fingers dipping between my thighs. Not touching me where it counted, but so, so close.
A sudden memory flashed.
Jimmy’s weight on me. Deep thrusts. My legs gripping his waist.
A hard floor.
Teeth on skin.
Me screaming in pleasure.
Him whispering how beautiful I am.
Holy God. My tailbone (and other parts) throbbed, the lingering bruise confirming the flashback’s authenticity.
But Jimmy pulled his hand away.
My thighs burned, followed by an urge to grab his hand and shove it up my skirt.
What was happening to me? I was a professional. A competitor in need of a freaking job. Not some sex-crazed woman after a quickie.
Warmth persisted from his touch and that memory. When he leaned in to say, “Number one happened against my bedroom door,” that heat turned molten.
The man wasn’t playing fair.
We each had a glass of water, and I gulped half of mine, catching Jimmy’s smirk from the corner of my eye. Seriously unfair. That level of flirtation implied he was after a second round. Not altogether unappealing.
But if I let that happen, I couldn’t pass out this time. I’d make sure I was wide awake for the entire show, which meant the aftermath would reach new heights of awkward. My no-strings, no-names rule would be toast. Twice a week we’d be in each other’s faces, my current level of distraction amplified.
Bad idea.
I focused on the tasks at hand. A bottle of wine and corkscrew were placed in front of each contestant. Three judges made the rounds, marking our ability to open a bottle. The Nose cut his foil in one smooth move, the cork popping out in a clean stroke. Jimmy also made it look effortless, his wrists loose as he maneuvered the lever.
I fumbled.
I’d opened hundreds of bottles, usually with my dad’s corkscrew, but I should have aced the test. Instead it took two swipes for the foil to come off, and I missed the center of the cork. Too many people were watching me—judging, wishing my failure. Performing under pressure was my kryptonite, a reason the jobs I’d burned through never involved crowds.
I fisted my hands on my lap, unsure what had made me think I could pull this off. Even if, by some miracle, I won, the position gained would be nothing but pressure and the spotlight, the event splashed across local papers, real sommeliers calling it a joke. How would I manage?
“Why doesn’t Alonzo just do one day of tastings to choose the winner?” Dragging out this torture was unappealing, the possibility of my birthday wish never coming true making it all the worse.
“They need the publicity,” Jimmy said. “They want to play it up. He’ll only cut a couple people each session. Give the papers something to write about. And don’t worry, a few on the far table messed up worse than you.”
“Worse than me? Is that your way of making me feel better?”
He closed the distance between us again. His breath teased my cheek. “Number two was with you on the edge of my bed. I was kneeling on the floor with your legs over my shoulders. If you want me to make you feel better, all you have to do is ask.”
Stop the presses. Bronze this moment. Bottle this bubble of time.
I brushed off last week’s comment about hi
m not needing his “cock” to please a woman. I knew my body, knew what it could and couldn’t feel, and he was toying with me. But if he was truthful, if number two happened with him on his knees, that meant I came from oral. From him eating my pussy as Gwen would have said.
The impossible achieved.
I’d knocked one of my pens askew when opening the bottle, so I repositioned it. A small corner of order I could keep. “I don’t believe you.”
He squinted at me. “You’re questioning my skill?”
“No. I’m sure you’re plenty skilled, but that’s never happened for me.”
The contestants were chatting as our blind tasting was poured—a study of Pinot Noir in five glasses. My grape, thankfully. A chance to redeem myself. But instead of focusing on the wines I’d have to guess, I was sharing my sexual dysfunction with the man I should have been avoiding. And I wasn’t even drunk.
“Are you shitting me?” he asked, incredulous. “You rode my face like it was your job.”
That visual had me clenching everywhere. Could he be telling the truth? Had my body unraveled under his tongue? “I don’t lie. Not well, at least. You clearly have no problem telling tales.”
I tried not to glance his way, but he leaned forward, forcing the connection. His dark hair fell across his forehead. Hair I’d probably tugged in the throes of passion.
Glee shone in his eyes. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“Not happening.” But I so wanted it to. To know once and for all if my frigidness in that position was my headspace, the man’s inexperience, or a general lack of connection.
Since my father had passed away, and the whole Gabe fiasco, I’d always dated the “right” guys—boys with my mother’s stamp of approval, similar upbringing making conversation easy and family dinners nice. The word love had been used, and I’d been happy, but passion had never played a role. Not even with Gabe. Touching his tattooed arms and wearing his leather jacket had made me feel wicked and wild, something I’d craved, but lust had never spurred my pulse.
My reaction to Bad Boy was lust with a side of longing and a dash of need.
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 6