Page 55 of One Wild Wish

“First, get back to the massage.” She kicked my thigh, and I complied. “Second, I do have ink.”

My thumbs froze. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“In case you weren’t aware, Sunshine, I’ve explored every inch of your skin. If you had a tattoo, I would have seen it. Unless you got something in the past four days, in which case, you better undress right the fuck now.” Tattoo or not, getting her naked was sounding better and better. The perfect dessert.

Color bloomed on her cheeks. “It’s on my hip. When I told Gwen my new job plan, she said I couldn’t ink people without knowing how it felt. She forced me into a shop.”

My eyes roved over her, picturing the freckled skin below her yellow dress. No way did she have a tattoo. “And?”

“And I’d drawn an image. I mean, the only reason I’d considered tattooing as a career was because I could draw and didn’t have to do more school. So I drew this really beautiful anchor for my dad—he had a boat and loved fishing.” She smiled at the memory, a fleeting thing that squeezed my heart. “The stencil was on, the gun buzzed, but I have a pretty low pain threshold.”

“This is too good,” I said, sensing where the story was headed. I crawled over her, until she was on her back, my knees on either side of hers. I grabbed the bottom of her dress and lifted. “Keep going, Sunshine.”

Her throat bobbed in a long, slow slide. “He did one mark, and I screamed bloody murder. I flew off the table, created a scene, and ran from the shop. Gwen, the instigator, ran after me, doubled over with laughter.”

I would have paid good money to see that, but I needed my eyes on her skin. “Which side?” She pointed to her left, and I pushed up her skirt. Above her skimpy underwear a tiny mark decorated her hip, nothing more than a pinhead. “I thought this was a birthmark.”

“Nope. I ride motorcycles and I’m inked, like the badass I am.”

Badass and cute as hell. I gave the tattoo a kiss, then planted another one below the white lace. Then one on her inner thigh. My dick throbbed, the day nothing but an aphrodisiac. I could have slipped her underwear down and dragged my tongue up her pretty little pussy, but finding out why she was so lost was important. Rachel was important.

She shifted restlessly, and I moved up, caging her shoulders with my hands. “Why so many jobs?”

Her eyelids were heavy with lust, but she said, “Because I don’t know who I am.”

It came out softly, a whisper on the breeze. I lowered my voice, too. “You’re a girl with a wild side she’s afraid to explore, and you need wine as much you need oxygen. I’ve seen it before, the look you get when you swirl a glass, right before you take that first sip. It’s what you’re meant to do. Not some stupid contest and serving at restaurants. Being a part of the process. That’s where the magic is. Why not explore that?”

A squirrel scurried up the willow tree, its noisy chatter drawing our attention. Rachel kept her focus there. “I got into wine after my dad died. Never considered it more than a hobby. As my interest grew, I looked into it. Checked out the requirements to be a winemaker.” Her left cheek hollowed, probably from biting it. A habit when she was stressed. “It’s daunting, starting over. It would take years, and I’d probably have to move back home, when relying on myself makes me feel strong and independent.”

Her gaze drifted to my hand and up my arm, landing on my face. Her brown eyes glazed with sadness. “My parents paid for school for my brother and me, and I ask for things from time to time, but letting my mom support me now doesn’t sit well. I don’t want to go backward. And it’s like”—she wrinkled her nose as if her words scented the breeze with sourness—“each time I fail at something, I’m disappointing my dad. He had nothing and worked hard to build a life for us. He believed I’d be a success. So it’s like he’s watching me steamroll through life, shaking his head.”

This woman. So honest and so good and desperate to please everyone around her, gone and alive. She needed to focus on herself, though. Be the woman she was meant to be, even if it meant sucking up her pride. “Not following your dreams, for whatever reason, is the only thing that would be a failure. And not exploring yourself is criminal. For instance, when I do this”—I placed my hand on her ribs, over her dress, my thumb grazing the swell of her breast—“what are you hoping I do next?”

Pupils blown wide, she tried to wriggle lower, get my hand to move, but I held firm.

“Do you want it slow and sweet, or rough and hard?” I asked. “I could spend an hour kissing and sucking your breasts, or I could grab your tit and take your nipple between my teeth. Either will make me a happy man, but what do you want?”

The rise and fall of her chest quickened, and her throat bobbed. “I want it rough. I like when you bite. I like when you pull my hair.”

Her words spilled out, each one chasing the next, and Jesus.To hear her say it, ask for me to push her boundaries? That level of trust tugged at my primal instinct to call her mine. Protect her. Learn every lick and touch that would make her buck.

It also sent a punch of lust to my groin.

I nudged her knees apart, and my hips fell on hers. My erection dug into the valley between her thighs. The thrust that followed had her arching her back, and I squeezed her tit. She gasped, short and sharp, fueling my desire. All I wanted was her. Those incoherent sounds. To know I was taking her places she’d never been.

Leaning on an elbow, I shoved her dress above her bra, my jeans thick and rough against her lace underwear. Exactly how she liked it. I didn’t unclasp her bra, didn’t have the patience. Instead I tugged the cups down, and her breasts pushed up, small and perfect, light pink nipples puckered in tight buds.

I fucking loved her tits. And she loved it wild, like me. I squeezed and licked and bit and sucked, while grinding against her. Her fingers dug into my back. My thighs were on fire. She writhed under me, one hand tangling with my hair, forcing our lips together. The kiss wasn’t pretty. It was need and urgency and hunger. It was the pressure of our lives and all we wanted but weren’t sure we could have.

It was us.

I couldn’t wait. The urge to slam into her had me undoing my belt buckle and shoving my jeans past my ass. She shimmied out of her underwear, and then I was in her, all that tight heat beckoning me closer, as though I had a home. A place in Rachel’s life. Her bra was below her tits, the straps of her dress down her shoulders, my jeans at my knees. My hips slammed into hers—hard, sharp, greedy thrusts. She met me each time. I wanted her messy, letting go of her inhibitions. Taking for herself.

“God, Jimmy.” Her face was a display of sensual abandon, her nails on my ass, forcing me deeper.

Hell yes.

“You’re an animal,” I growled. “Exactly how I like you. So fucking hot.”

An animal who pushed a hand up my shirt, found a nipple piercing, and gave it a twist. Heat shot down my spine, my orgasm building. With each thrust, I rubbed against her, pulling out far enough for my barbell to tease her opening and then slamming tight. Harder. Rougher. It felt too good. She felt too good. Dammit if I wasn’t losing my heart to her.

The thought caught in my chest, tangled and twisted, driving my movements. She was on the brink, her pussy clamping around my cock, and I shot off like a rocket. Her spasms followed, both of us riding the wave.

Something crossed her face then, a softening of her eyes, moisture gathering in the corners. Her lips parted, like she was about to speak. Instead she swallowed, and her expression dimmed—her internal light flickering, its power source weakened.

Mine damn near blew out. If this was her closing off again, putting up her walls, it would gut me. I couldn’t keep drifting with her whims. Not after today. Not after this. To me, she could never be a fling.