Page 30 of Legs

When we'd taken the ass photo, she’d laughed even harder. She would try to pose, then she’d tip over on her side, slapping the floor and cracking up. I’d have to walk around, my abs aching, my throat dry from laughing so damn much. When we finally nailed it, she shuffled toward me on her knees and kissed me while smiling, branding me with her joy. I’d never kissed a woman like that—both of us grinning, small laughs tumbling against each other’s tongues.

Rachel was one of a kind.

She was also lost.

When our breathing regulated, we slouched into the couch, side by side, the edges of our hands touching. “You know what I find infinitely interesting about you, Ray?”

Her fingers twitched, a spark sent from the back of her hand to mine. “What?” she whispered.

“You have this wild innocence about you, on the surface. Looks like you work hard to keep your apartment neat. Keep things in order. You’re sexy as hell in everything you wear, but your outfits seem calculated. It reminds me of how I used to be, trying to fit into a certain mold. The girl I met that first night was wild, and I’d bet there’s more of her in you than you’d like to admit.”

She snatched her hand away and clutched her thigh, avoiding our touch. “I don’t think my psychological assessment figured into our deal.”

I knocked my boot against the gray coffee table. Clean lines. Compact. Probably Ikea. “Am I wrong?”

She settled heavier into the cushion, her body no longer rigid. “I don’t know.”

“Trust me, I do. I’m older and wiser and speak from experience.” I pushed my palm under hers and clasped our fingers, bringing her knuckles to my mouth for a soft kiss. “I see you, Sunshine. Now what do you say we rock this tasting?”

I sat up, pulling her with me, the warmth between our palms snapping across my skin. Until we both let go. She kicked off her heels and crossed her ankles. Her skirt rode up, exposing the curve of her knees. That stretch of smooth skin had my mind back on our first encounter and everything I wanted to see again.

“I’m ready,” she said.

I leaned in, our noses an inch apart. “Ready…meaning I can flip you over and eat your pussy now?”

Her cheeks burned the color of our Cabernet. “Incorrigible.”

“Honest.”

“Stick to the tasting.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” I zeroed in on her prim thighs, pressed so tightly together. Her denial of our pull only incited my craving. That was fine. She was worth the effort.

With two fingers on my chin, she flicked my attention away. We turned our focus to our wine tasting, but the barrier between us had lifted, truths shared clearing the way.

We swirled the glasses and listed the scents opening, inhaling the aroma of a crushed blackberry, then repeating the exercise, comparing notes. I pushed her to close her eyes and bite the green pepper, chew its tough skin, describe the layers of taste from bright to vegetal to bitter. The exercise was a decent one, but mostly I loved watching her jaw work, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, her soft hum as she sifted through the flavors. The moment it clicked, when she linked that vegetable to the aroma in her glass, she grabbed my knee and squealed.

It sent my pulse thundering.

I had a rip in the knee of my jeans, and her thumb dipped inside. I placed my hand over hers to still her movements. One brush, and I was ready to tug her on my lap and explore the dirty side she kept locked up.

She slipped her hand away. “I’ve done classes, spent hours at my father’s tastings, but Cabs were always elusive. It clicked tonight. So thank you.”

I shrugged. “Told you I’d uphold my end of the bargain. And that’s nice—that you and your father share wine.” No matter my effort, mine was always too busy building his business to enjoy a glass with me.

“Shared,” she said, her downturned eyes as sad as her voice. “He died five years ago.”

The admission sunk an anchor through my chest, taking my heart with it.

Unable to keep my distance, I threaded my hand into her hair and dipped my head to her level. “I’m sorry.”

There wasn’t much else to say. No words eased the blow loss dealt. I’d loved my mother’s father more than my own, and when my pappous had passed, I’d hid in the vineyard for hours, picking unripe grapes from the vines and crushing them with my fists. He’d kicked a soccer ball with me, had taken me by the hand and told me tales of the Greek gods as we’d walked our land. Hopefully Rachel saw understanding in my eyes.

She leaned into my hand. “The more time I spend with wine, the closer I feel to him. He loved it.”

The more time I spent with wine, the farther I felt from my family. But I was glad for her.

We stood, our tasting and time over. I offered to help clean up, but she waved me off, an end to our night.