Page 17 of Legs

My necklace felt heavy, the cuff circling my wrist tight. I’d given that woman six orgasms and not one of them had left a mark. When I came up for air from between her legs that night, she’d grabbed my hair, pulled my face to hers and said, “You are a god. I don’t know what you just did to me, but you better do it again.”

So I did. With gusto.

And she didn’t remember.

The knowledge chafed at me, worse than if she’d faked every yes and more and don’t stop. She had no idea how good I’d made her feel. How hard she’d made me come.

I was pissed.

Alonzo collected the sign-in sheet and proceeded to place five bottles of white—Chardonnay, Riesling, Gewürztraminer, Sauvignon Blanc, and Pinot Grigio—in a line.

“Tonight,” he said, “is an elimination round. A blind tasting to separate those who are serious about their wines from those who are here for the show. If you don’t guess all five varietals correctly, you’re out. No second chances. The rest of you will be invited back. Each Tuesday and Thursday for eight weeks, we’ll test your skills: opening bottles, pouring wines, and table-service exercises. Each session will involve a blind tasting and an elimination. Those with the two lowest scores will be sent home each round. Are there any questions?”

As hands flew up, Rachel and the Colon slipped back into their seats. She sat perfectly composed. Too stiff to be natural. Although taking that photo had been funny as hell, and we’d had a blast taking it, she was obviously uncomfortable. I could understand her embarrassment. I hadn’t done something that ridiculous since college.

“I won’t mention it again,” I said.

She stared dead ahead. “You just did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And again.”

“Are you high? I didn’t say a thing.”

A few people shushed us, a dirty look shot from the Colon, and she lowered her voice. “Actually, everything you’re not saying revolves around the one thing that’s banned from discussion. As far as I know, it was the worst sex of my life, and I’m here to listen to Mr. Adriano, not you.”

Worst sex? Of her life?

She may have been defensive about that photo, but she didn’t remember how she’d dared me to flash the entire street beforehand, or the kisses I’d trailed up her calves afterward, our laughter dissolving into breathy moans, all playfulness forgotten.

She didn’t remember a damn thing.

We sat beside each other, invisible bricks stacking between us. All I could do was review every detail from our night, and she was oblivious.

By the time the questions died down, all five glasses in front of us had been poured. The Colon sweated profusely. Rachel fidgeted beside me. I should have been calm; the tasting was a joke. Even my brother, with his underdeveloped palate, could discern a Riesling from a Chardonnay. It was child’s play. Except I was riled up, the only cures a long ride on my bike or a round with a punching bag.

I forced my focus on the wines. I knew each one by aroma alone.

Riesling: green apple, lime zest, a hint of petrol.

Sauvignon Blanc: asparagus, gooseberries, fresh cut grass.

The others were just as easy.

Rachel shifted and her skirt rode up, exposing her legs. Long legs. Sexy legs. Legs that had gripped my hips like iron.

When my grandfather first explained that the alcohol drips that clung to a wineglass were known as the wine’s legs, I’d giggled. When I got older, I understood how sexy that sweep of liquid was, tantalizing and teasing. Exactly like the distracting legs beside me.

I jammed a hand through my hair and diverted my attention to the posers around the room. Many were fumbling with their glasses, scratching out and rewriting their answers. It was laughable. Rachel paused on the Gewürztraminer, likely confusing it with the Riesling. If she got it wrong, we’d part ways and I’d never see her again. I’d get her out of my head once and for all. Eliminate any distractions. But the idea of her never knowing the feel of me inside her, when I could barely look at my bed without stroking myself, wasn’t right.

When she wrote the correct answer, my relief shocked me in its intensity.

We were asked to swap pages, then Alonzo described each wine. The Colon, predictably, messed up the whole page. He scowled, and said, “Shit.” Rachel and I shared a laugh.

People stood, the room a mix of cocky smirks and dejected faces, at least half not invited back next week. Rachel exhaled, pleased with her success.

I wouldn’t see her for five days, and if the past eleven were any indication, she’d occupy too many of my quiet minutes. She, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t give me a second thought. Unaware what I was playing at, I wrapped an arm behind her chair, my breath close enough to skim her ear.