Page 31 of Legs

I grabbed my jacket and paused at the door. “Give me your number.”

“Shouldn’t you ask, not demand?”

“If you remembered our night together, you’d know I’m more of the demanding sort.” I couldn’t resist another glimpse of her indignation.

It didn’t come. “How demanding?” Her voice purred with curiosity.

I stepped closer. “Very.”

Her eyes lit up, a breathy sigh escaping her lips. “I wouldn’t remember.”

“But you want to know, don’t you?”

She inched backward, until she hit her hallway wall. “Yes, but…”

“What’s stopping you, Ray? Because this quote…” I gestured to the one above her head: Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star. ~ W. Clement Stone. “How do you know I’m not that star? I’m burning pretty hot for you. What’s to say I’m not the thing you’ve been missing?”

There was little space between us—me hovering over her, her head tilted to search my face, determine my worth. She flattened her palms on my stomach and my abs tightened. If this was her keeping me away, it was having the opposite effect. But hesitation rippled from her.

I pressed closer, my lips a breath from hers. “I think I scare you. I think you can’t imagine yourself with me, or me in the life you’ve pictured, and you think I’m after a quick fuck. You’d be wrong on all accounts. Life is what you make it, and I can find a thousand quotes to hang on your walls to that effect. But it only falls into place if you honor who you are. I’m more comfortable in a dive bar than a yacht club. I get off on body art and speeding on my Harley. I’d also wager having you on the back, gripping me with your thighs and clutching my chest would kick the experience up a notch. I want to spend time with you, not just prove I can make you come with my tongue. Although I want that, too.”

Riled up and high on her scent, I brushed my lips against hers. Just a tease. She whimpered and eased her lips open, a small distance, enough for me to swipe my tongue along her bottom lip, stealing the tiniest taste. I pulled back, but her eyes remained closed.

“What’s going to happen now,” I said, my voice deeper than I’d ever heard it, “is I’m going to give you my number, and when you think you’re ready, you’re going to call. Until then, I’d prefer if you don’t ignore me when we’re at Crush.”

Her iPhone was the same model and color as mine. I grabbed it from her hall table and tapped her screen. No lock in place. I entered my details, smirking as I chose a name for my listing. She blinked at me the whole while, lost in a haze. I was having trouble functioning, too, that tiny bit of contact jumbling my senses. All but one.

Desire.

She’d call me. Of that I was sure. Question was when, and if I could wait that long.

“Until next time,” I said, and she bit her lip.

As I turned, she said, “I’ve never met anyone like you. You have me all twisted up.”

Jesus.

I glanced back, and my heart gave a kick. It was like we were back in the grocery store, her eyes full of nothing but me. She may have been twisted, but the need in her voice had me contorted in knots. “When you’re ready, I’ll untie you. We’re not in a rush.”

The intense moment lingered, agonizing seconds filled with scorching heat as we stared at each other. I was a heartbeat from pinning her back against that wall.

Instead I left. It would take a long, fast ride to subdue a fraction of my sexual frustration. But it was more than that. The urge to lock us in her apartment for a week, wine tasted and stories shared, was potent. The past two years had been nothing but time to stew while I excavated the edges of who I really was. Rachel made me laugh and challenged my wine knowledge, a gift for the time I’d endured. Like walking into Vesper had been fate.

I still had no clue what led me to the club that night, but fuck if I cared. I had Rachel now, even if she didn’t realize it yet.

As I reached my bike, my cell rang. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait long, after all. But I frowned at the screen. Alena Giannopoulos. My mother’s name had lit my phone often lately, a barrage of appeals I’d ignored. I did the same again.

Growing up, my mother would cook mountains of food for family gatherings. She’d tut over our cuts and sprains, always going out of her way to praise my accomplishments. She also worried over my father’s heavy-handed ways, but never interfered. Not even when he gave me the ultimatum to break things off with Sophia or lose the winery. Not even when he followed through, and I lost both. My mother’s meek acceptance of his authority hurt worse than his betrayal.

They could all go to hell—them and their lies tainting our family wine and my grandfather’s legacy. The only call I planned on answering was from Rachel, a woman who spoke truth and offered innocence and oozed the promise of sin. Until then, I’d live off the meager taste I’d stolen.

Ten

Rachel

One of the benefits of working reception at my gym was the free membership. It meant I could work out gratis, often with Ainsley and Gwen. Today my shift ended later than usual, which meant the girls had come and gone, and I had to squeeze in cardio before I met them for drinks—more like me begging for the outing and them agreeing.

My motto since Thursday night had been to keep on the move, socialize as much as possible, all systems go, go, go.