Page 61 of One Wild Wish

One hand on his shoulder, I fisted his shaft with my other, reveling in the feel of him, so hard and thick, because he wanted me. I slid my hand up, root to tip, my thumb toying with the barbell under his swollen head, then I ground into him, pressing his length and piercing against me. Gone were my inhibitions, my reservations dripping down the drain with my tears. This man was all mine.

I swallowed my shyness. “Fuck me.” I dug my knees into his sides. “Hard.”

His pupils dilated, a low growl rumbling from his chest. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled his hips back until the tip of his cock dragged down my belly and lined up with my entrance. His thrust was forceful, slamming me against the wall. The raining water was hot, the tiles at my back cold, my body so full with Jimmy. With us. He kissed my collarbone. His teeth scraped my skin, water coasting over my open mouth as I groaned.

“You’re mine,” he said, wet sounds of slapping skin echoing in the small space. “Don’t push me away again.”

“I won’t.” I pulled his hair, drank from his lips. “I’m yours.”

I think he said mine again, but his gravelly voice disappeared in our hungry kiss, our tongues tangling as they slid against each other. I met his thrusts, my eyes rolling back. Electricity hummed along my skin. The drag of his cock, in and out, fanned the sparks. Hotter. Wilder.

I apologized with my mouth, sucking a path down his neck, over the hard bone of his shoulder, sinking my teeth in when he pushed deeper. His fingers dug into my ass, possessive and hard enough to bruise. It spurred my lust.

“I’m so close,” I said.

“I’m right there. You make me fucking crazy.”

He changed our angle, freeing a hand to squeeze my breast and take my nipple into his mouth. My whole body clenched. Wet from the shower and his mouth and him, heat pulsed through me, sharp shocks that shook me to my core. His orgasm chased mine, both of us chanting fuck and yes as we stole our pleasure.

My limbs slackened. We traded lazy kisses as he pulled out of me and eased my legs to the floor. “I love your pierced cock,” I said against his mouth.

We swayed under the water, dancing to an unheard song. He rolled his tongue around mine in a long, sensual stroke. “I love your tits. The perfect handfuls.”

“I love the dimple in your chin.” I pressed my lips to the spot. “I only just noticed it, under all that sexy scruff.”

He lifted my left leg by the knee and coasted his fingers up my thigh. “I could spend a week worshipping your legs, and I fucking love your badass tattoo.” He released my leg and slapped my hip.

“Nipple,” I said, circling the flat of his with my thumb, trailing the piercing.

“Neck.” He tasted my skin.

We named each body part we loved, punctuating the claims with a lick or kiss or nip, the water unrelenting, my chill extinguished, everything deliciously warm. We didn’t say we loved each other. There was still too much vulnerability between us. Too much uncertainty. But we said enough.

Then his face was between my thighs. I came on his tongue, shuddering until I sank to my knees, too. More kissing. More groping. I pushed him to his feet and took him in my mouth, pulling a long, hard orgasm from him. I’d never enjoyed giving head as much as I did with Jimmy. The power. The control. His thickness in my mouth and piercing on my tongue.

Later, we sat cross-legged on his bed, Jimmy in his black briefs, me in his Harley-Davidson shirt, a bowl of red grapes between us. I popped one into my mouth. The sweet juice mixed with the tannic skin. “When you were a kid,” I said, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”

He plucked a grape and spun it through his fingers. He grinned, boyish and sweet. “A professional wrestler. Like in the WWE, not the Olympic kind. I was addicted to the shows, had all the action figures. Even had a name picked out for my wrestling persona.”

I flicked his ankle. “Spill it.”

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “The Grisly Greek.”

I tried to stifle my laugh, but picturing a young Jimmy puffing up his chest and reenacting wrestling scenes as the Grisly Greek was too much. “Wow, yeah. I think you missed your calling.”

“Your turn, smart ass. Aside from your endless list of jobs, what did seven-year-old Rachel want to be?”

The title winemaker pushed to the tip of my tongue, but we were talking about childhood dreams and fantasies. There was my ballerina phase, but it hadn’t lasted long. My other wish was a lot more embarrassing. “I don’t want to say.”

“You brought it up.”

“I’m changing the topic.”

His hair had started drying, wavy black strands standing on end, a glorious mess framing his handsome face. If he really were a wrestling star, I’d name him the Heartthrob.

“Not a chance,” he said.

The Stubborn Heartthrob.