Walk on the Wilder Side: Wilder Adventures, Book 2

by Serena Bell

  I frown. “Rachel, baby. We don’t need a plan to have a picnic.”

  “I need a plan to have a picnic.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  There’s a long silence. My heart pounds. Then she says, “Yeah. I do.”

  We pass out of the business district and onto Highway 25. We drive for a while in silence, before she asks, “Where are we going?”

  I’m torn between laughing and wanting to reassure her. “I don’t know,” I tell her, to see how she reacts.

  She slumps a little in her seat. “How will we know when we’re there?”

  Now I do laugh. “I’ll know.”

  “Doesn’t that scare you at all?”

  I shake my head. Plenty of things scare me, but driving without a map isn’t one of them.

  We continue in silence, the high desert rolling out on either side of us, brown and sage green.

  “Rach?” I ask her.

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “Do you always have a plan?”

  “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a sec, then says, “I even had a life plan. Until I got triple whammied.”

  “Life plan?” I ask. Then, “Triple whammied?” Although I think I know what she means by that.

  She makes another hmming noise. “Life plan.” She ticks it off on her fingers: “One, a four-oh in high school, two, college, three, grad school, four, great apartment, five, the library job of my dreams, six, awesome boyfriend, seven, meet the parents, eight, get engaged, nine, get married, ten, have two-point-five kids, eleven, live happily ever after.”

  “Holy shit, Rachel.” Her list hurts my head. And my chest. Though maybe it’s not the list that gets to me. Maybe these aches are how I imagine the triple whammy must have felt to her.

  “It got blown up, though. My plan. Items four through eleven, obliterated. Triple whammied: job, boyfriend, and apartment in one day.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I reach out and put my hand on her thigh. Not to cop a feel, although, God, she’s soft. Just to give her comfort.

  “Thanks.”

  I leave my hand there, and she weaves her fingers with mine. It feels so good, I almost drive off the road. I close my hand, squeezing hers.

  “It’ll be okay,” she says, after a moment. “I sent out a bunch of cover letters and resumes yesterday. And Louisa is going to sublet me a room in her apartment.”

  And you’ll find another awesome boyfriend.

  I hate the idea, even though I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t qualify as awesome boyfriend according to the Master Plan’s criteria. I almost ask what they are, then decide I don’t need to rain on our picnic. She’s here with me today, we’re both in good moods, and I’m going to show her some of my favorite things. Then I’ll make her cry my name in the open air. That’s all the plan I need.

  “I’ve never had a plan,” I tell her.

  “For anything?”

  “I mean, sometimes I have a plan for a day. But not usually.”

  Of course, not having a plan doesn’t mean you can’t get triple whammied.

  I don’t say that out loud.

  We’ve been driving thirty or so minutes when I spot what we need. It’s a roadside stand, the semi-permanent variety. I haven’t seen this particular one before, but I would have been willing to swear we’d come across something like it. We pull into the gravel-and-overgrown-grass parking lot.

  “Elk jerky,” Rachel reads off the hand-spray-painted sign. “Buffalo jerky. Beef jerky.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say. “And cherries. For lunch.”

  “That’s not lunch,” she says, but she’s definitely smiling.

  “Do you not like elk jerky?”

  “I do like it, actually.”

  “Cherries?”

  “Love ’em.”

  I buy a bunch of both and a couple of bottles of water. “Lunch,” I say, holding the paper bag out to Rachel. “Do you have any paper towels?” I ask the cowboy behind the stand.

  He tears a bunch off a roll and hands them over.

  I take the opportunity to inspect the back of the truck. There’s no blanket, but there’s a scruffy blue tarp that hasn’t seen too much wear and tear. “Will this do?” I ask Rachel.

  “Yeah.” She’s definitely smiling.

  I pull her close and kiss her nose. She lifts her chin and our mouths meet, a soft settling into each other.

  I could kiss her for hours, but I let her go as another car pulls into the parking lot.

  “Anything else worrying you?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head.

  “See?” I say. “No plan, no problem.”

  16

  Rachel

  Brody turns down a side road that gives way to dirt.

  “Were you messing with me when you said you didn’t know where you were going and would know when we got there?” I ask.

  “’Fraid so,” he says.

  I punch his arm, and he laughs. It’s a pure, rich, molasses sound, and I want to wrap myself up in it.

  He drives down the road until he reaches a gate, then parks. We’re the only vehicle here. I think we’re in the low foothills of the Cascades, but geography has never been my strong suit, and I was too busy freaking out to keep track of how we got here.

  He pulls the tarp from the truck bed.

  “Can you walk a couple hundred yards?”

  I glance down at my sandaled feet. These are relatively sturdy sandals, the kind you could walk around town in, or Disneyland for a day, but I’m not sure how well they’ll do with the woods.

  “It’s just like this,” he says, gesturing at the ground, which is a cat track. “No rougher.”

  That turns out to be true; I get a few pebbles in my sandals, and my toes are dusty, but that’s the worst of it. And it’s worth it when we step out into an open area, a high rock outcropping overlooking a lake. The lake is a beautiful ice-blue color, surrounded by sunlit trees.

  “Oh!” My voice reveals my delight. “This is beautiful!”

  He spreads the tarp out. I look down at my dress, and at the tarp, which is—to put it kindly—dusty. Then I sit, because, well, dang it all to heck, as they say. My dress will launder, and Brody is right. I never do anything without a plan, and it feels good.

  Besides, the dirt on the tarp is nothing compared to what the cherry juice is going to do to my white, yellow, and orange sundress. We sit side by side, facing the water. When Brody puts an arm around me, I scooch closer to him. He’s warm and muscly. My body gears up for more of that goodness by melting.

  We eat jerky and cherries and drink water. The salty-sweet combo is so good, I can’t stop.

  “This is really great, Brody,” I say, after a while. “Like, really great.”

  I get a Brody smile.

  “I know,” he says. “Do you think it would have been better if we planned it?”

  I punch him. Mostly because his arm is like a brick wall, and it’s satisfying. Then I relent and say, “Nope.”

  He kisses me with his salty-sweet mouth. Then he draws back and strips off his shirt.

  “That’s pretty forward, don’t you think?” I tease.

  He tosses his shirt on the tarp, and I stop teasing because, wow.

  The last time I saw Brody without his shirt was years ago. He was, maybe, sixteen. And it was a beautiful sight then. But now? He’s a wall of tanned, muscled perfection. Broad shoulders, cut, inked pecs, ridged abs, just the right amount of dark-gold chest hair, and a matching trail disappearing into his jeans.

  “See something you like?” he asks, amused.

  I put a hand out and stroke the pretty. His abs flex under my touch, a small groan escaping his mouth. He captures my hand with his as I find his waistband.

  “I want to show you one of my favorite things,” he says, stripping off his jeans. Now I really can’t take my eyes off him. He’s wearing gray cotton boxer briefs, and my touch has apparently positively affected him, because—yeah. The bad boy is big.

  “I want to
see it.”

  His eyes follow my gaze and darken, but he says, “You can see that later.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “Ah, Rachel,” he says. “If I’d had any idea how much fun you’d turn out to be, we would have been doing this years ago. C’mere.” He leads me to the edge of the rock outcropping we’re sitting on.

  “We’re going to jump.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” I demand, stepping back from the vertiginous drop.

  “Nope,” he says. “Do you want to go first, or should I?” His eyes rake over me, appreciative. “You could lose the dress.”

  “What if someone comes out here?”

  “I bet your underwear’s pretty.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “There is no earthly way I’m jumping off that cliff.”

  “Okay,” he says, and shrugs. “See you in a few!”

  And with that, he’s gone over the edge, yelling.

  “Brody!” I call. My stomach lurches, and I peek over the edge, my heart pounding. But when I look down, he’s in the water, pumping his fist and howling with joy. It’s as much emotion as I’ve ever seen Brody express, and it fills me with delight.

  “It’s so awesome!” he yells up to me. “Join me!”

  It’s like there are two parts of me, the one whose heart took flight over the edge when Brody jumped, full to the brim with Brody’s happiness.

  And the other part, which is full of objections: things that could go wrong, reasons I need more time to think about this. Like, a year.

  Maybe if I’d known ahead of time. If I’d worn a bathing suit. If I had a towel.

  If I knew the temperature of the water…

  “You don’t need a plan! Just do it!” Brody calls.

  I feel seen.

  I’m not sure I can totally explain what happens next.

  Or, well, maybe I can.

  Most likely, the part of me that’s full of Brody pushed the other part of me off the cliff.

  I slide the straps of my sundress off my shoulder. I let the dress pool at my feet, exposing my underwear. It’s nothing special, but it’s not granny panties either. A nice pair of light brown cotton bikinis and a matching lace bra.

  Good.

  I take a tentative step toward the edge, close my eyes, and jump.

  17

  Brody

  She does it. I hardly have time to think, She’s naked! And No, she’s wearing a bra and panties! before she’s in the water, hooting and hollering.

  “I did it!” she says, breathless. “Oh my God, Brody, I did it!”

  I swim over to her. It’s not easy to kiss while treading water, but we manage a short, breathless, tantalizing taste.

  “See that rock there? That’s where we’re going. And then there’s a path back up.”

  We swim to the rock, and I boost her up, shamelessly loving the feel of her cool, smooth skin under my rough palms. I climb up on the rock beside her, and she sits close to me, tucking herself into me.

  “Rachel,” I whisper.

  She turns towards me and tips her face up, so trusting and eager that my cock manages to rally against the icy dip, reaching for her.

  This woman.

  I kiss her. She tastes so good, sweet and salty and Rachel, which is definitely the best of those three flavors. And she is soft in my arms—hair damp against my cheek, satiny arms wrapped around my neck, breasts pillowed against my chest.

  I kiss along her jaw, tease her ear, kiss down her throat, to the hollow. I lick that spot until her cries turn to pleas. I drop kisses along her collarbone.

  Then I lean back, slightly, and take a minute to just soak her in.

  “Fucking A, Rachel. You’re so beautiful.” I stare, shamelessly, because holy shit she’s gorgeous. Smooth-as-satin skin, spilling out of the lacy cups of her bra, curving down over her belly to the triangle of her bikini, through which I can see the tantalizing shadow of her pussy. I duck my head and kiss her everywhere, open mouthed, tongue exploring her. I tease the edge of lace with the curled tip of my tongue and she makes a perfect, helpless noise that I feel like it’s the tug of a hand on my cock. No, that is her palm on my cock, cupping me, pressing me. I reach down, nudge her hand aside, because this is for her.

  Then I go back to work, running my lips and tongue over every exposed bit of her. Edging the cup of her bra down, I find her nipple with a biting tease. I flick it with the tip of my tongue, over and over, until she pants and clutches my head. Sliding off the rock, I help her wiggle to the edge, then kneel between her legs and slide my hands up her thighs.

  My mouth follows my hands, tasting the smooth bare skin, finding her panties with my thumbs. I dip my head and suck, then open my mouth over her to breathe heat against her mound.

  “Brody!”

  “You want more?”

  “Yes!”

  “Lean back. Open your legs.”

  I watch her face, registering the flare of her pupils. She likes the command. Noted.

  Then she sits straight up, and for a split, wretched second, I think she’s calling it.

  But nope. She slides her panties down. She slips them off, folds them, and sets them on the rock next to her.

  Those two things—her baring herself to me, and the care she takes with it—make my chest hurt.

  Then all the ache shifts to another part of me, because I’m looking at her, and she’s so fucking pretty. A neatly trimmed strip of dark curls, her clit swollen enough to peek out at me, and her lips glistening and eager.

  I need to get my mouth on her.

  She tastes so good. She’s so soft and so lickable and I want all of her. I need to get my tongue on her clit, need to give it the same pleasure I gave her nipple, nipping and flicking and drawing all those little gasps and pleas from her lips. I have to see how she likes it. Whether she wants the tip or the flat, the flicks or the circles, fast, slow, up and down. Just right here, or the feel of my whole mouth, open and hungry, over all of her.

  News flash: She likes it all.

  She lifts her hips and jerks against me, grabs my hair and calls my name.

  “You need more?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The please slays me. Jesus, Rachel.

  She’s tight. Slick and tight. My cock clenches at the root and there’s a split second when I think I’m going to lose it. Then I get myself under control. I work my finger gently into her, and she squeezes it, thrusting back against my hand. I lick her harder, faster, and she replies, yes, please, this time with the rocking of her hips.

  “More?”

  “Brody,” she gasps, which I take as a another yes.

  I love all her yesses.

  I give her a second finger. An open-mouthed kiss and a long, flat lick. And with a cry, she tips over the edge, coming, clenching my fingers, writhing against my tongue, calling my name.

  I lift my head, letting my hand do the work my tongue was doing, because I need to see her face.

  And I’m so glad I do, because she’s even prettier like this, all undone, head thrown back, mouth open, eyes closed, cheeks flushed.

  I start to move away, to stand up and help her put herself back together.

  “No. Wait.”

  She reaches for me.

  “Rachel—”

  “Please. Just let me.”

  No argument here. She runs a thumb over my boxer-briefs, over the swollen head of my cock, then untangles me from my shorts.

  “You have a nice cock,” she says, which catches me somewhere right between a chuckle and a shudder of pleasure. And then she wraps her hand around it, cool and sure, and her fingers are way prettier there than on that silicone model I’ve seen her handle. It probably would have been enough to put me within three strokes of bliss, even before she pulls her hand back, licks her palm, and goes to work again.

  The sexiest part is that she’s watching, too, watching her hand fist my cock, my head emerge, shiny and taut, a new droplet forming. Her lips are p
arted, her tongue peeking out.

  “Rachel.” My voice breaks.

  She opens her eyes.

  “You might want to—”

  I’m not sure what I was going to say. Stop, maybe, or duck, or grab a paper towel.

  But Rachel has the situation in hand—literally. “Shhh,” she says. “I gotcha.”

  Some guarded thing in me lets go, and suddenly I’m coming in long shuddering waves, lashing her palm. It’s one of those deep orgasms, the ones that feel ripped up from the bottom of your spine, that go on and on in waves.

  My knees buckle and I lower myself to the rock beside her, pulling her closer.

  She tilts her face up and smiles at me, shy and real. “Never a dull moment.”

  Then she leans her head on my shoulder, her hands still cupping me, and makes a small humming sound, like happiness.

  Me fucking too, Rachel, I think. Me fucking too.

  18

  Rachel

  We clean up, then dry off in the sun, then get dressed and pack up our picnic. I’m relaxed and contented, and haven’t thought for hours about the train wreck that is my old life.

  We must have been out of cell phone range for a while, because as we get close to Rush Creek and home, all of a sudden, my phone chirps and coughs up a whole bunch of notifications. Texts, from Louisa, from my mom, from Amanda. I sift through them—nothing essential. Louisa wants to know what’s up with the bad boy, my mom tells me one of my cousins is passing through tonight on a trip from the Redwood National Forest to Seattle and she’s making ropa vieja so I should be back by 7:30 and hungry, and Amanda is nailing down our plans for tomorrow night. Can you meet at Oscar’s at 7? she wants to know.

  Then I get distracted by a voicemail. From Hettie at the library.

  “I’m just going to listen to this voicemail. It’s from my ex-boss.”

  “Sure.” Brody hums, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Not scowling, not at all. I smile, too, thinking of how totally bowled over he looked after I made him come. Gratitude is hot.

  Rachel, the voicemail says. Don’t hang up on me, even though I know you might be tempted. We can give you your job back.