Page 23 of One Wild Wish

“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 him 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.

“Your blush says you’d like to find out if I’m lying.” He had no qualms calling me on the heat his presence stirred. Or goading me. “Don’t fuck up the Pinot tasting. Flustering you is too much fun.”

Such a jokester. “Pinot is my grape.”

“I thought you were a Cabernet Sauvignon lover. You nearly fainted when I poured you the Screaming Eagle. Even plastered yourself against the bottle.”

I flipped toward him and gripped his thigh. “Are you serious? You opened a Screaming Eagle? And I drank it?”

He chuckled, something different in his steely gaze. Not the sexy droop of his eyelids that had me wanting to nibble his neck, or the glazed sadness I’d seen. This was a sparkle, adoration behind the subtle glow. “You did. And unless you want the room to see how much you turn me on, I’d suggest releasing my leg.”

We were sequestered, no one beside me or across the table to eavesdrop, but I snatched my hand back. “I can’t believe I tasted a Screaming Eagle and don’t remember. That’s criminal.”

“You loved it, if that helps.” He lowered his voice, a quiet rumble just for me. “I think you liked it best when I poured a drop on your pussy before I ate you out.”

What? Whatwhatwhat? It was all too much. Missing that wine, my possible orgasm with those full lips between my thighs. That wine. The knowledge of what I’d missed was worse than the Butt Crack Incident.

I turned toward him and hissed, “This conversation ends now. We’re in a room with other people, and I need to focus. Keep the P-word to yourself.”

He mumbled something about me having no issues shouting pussy in Vesper, and I cursed Reckless Rachel for the thousandth time.

I forced my attention to our tasting. Five glasses of Pinot Noir faced me, my pens neatly lined up. A paper with five numbers listed in rows awaited my answers. My phone buzzed, stopped, then buzzed again. For sure my mother. I ignored the noise, but Jimmy frowned at my purse, then he snatched one of my pens.

I gawked at him. “That’s mine.”

“You have two.”

“In case one runs out of ink.”