Page 8 of Legs

“You’ll regret it.”

“I’m already regretting walking in here.”

I chuckled, unsure the last time flirting had been this much fun. “How about a bet?”

“I don’t bet with strangers.”

“But you have drinks with them?”

She paused. “What sort of bet?”

Between her rejection at Vesper and her stiff posture now, sitting beside me was probably pushing her beyond her limits. Limits I wanted to test. The women I’d messed around with weren’t tough to reel in. We were always after the same thing: a fun night between the sheets. The girl at my side was tipsy, but not so drunk she didn’t know what she was after. Something told me if I could unlace her, it would be lightyears beyond fun.

“You do a blind tasting of the Foursight and the Lynmar,” I said. “If you can’t tell them apart, then I buy you a glass of my choosing, and I get to taste it on your lips. At my place.”

“That escalated fast.” So did her breathing.

“Did you want this to go slow?”

Instead of turning me down, she said, “If I win…if I guess each wine, what do I get?”

“You tell me.”

“A winery?”

I barked out a laugh, but there was nothing funny about her joke. Two years ago, I’d have been able to ante up. “Might be out of my budget. Anything else?”

She looked at me through lowered lashes. “My place.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

I leaned in nice and slow, her ragged breaths shallowing as I neared her ear. “Sounds like we have a deal.”

At my instruction, Cameron poured two glasses out of sight while we sat in silence, but my mystery date’s eyes spoke volumes. Her attention lingered on my forearms, traveling over the ink. When I curved my arm around the back of her chair, her gaze swept to my chest, to the chain dipping below my shirt. Its weight felt heavier than usual, or maybe it was her rapt attention.

She hooked her crossed legs tighter, and all I wanted was to slip my hand between her thighs, over the thick denim, and feel the heat radiating from her.

Instead I toyed with the ends of her straight hair. I rolled them between my fingers. She nearly purred, and lust pooled in my groin. What would she sound like on the edge of her orgasm?

When Cameron set down the glasses, she straightened and tried to shake my hand from her hair. I didn’t budge, and she didn’t push. She swirled the glasses, raising each to her nose in turn. A straight nose with a slight slope in the center, those same freckles dotting the ridge. Each inhale sent her upper back into my palm, and when she tipped the first glass for a sip, I slipped my fingers below her hair and cupped her neck.

The wine never met her lips.

“That’s cheating,” she said, a quiver tumbling over her shoulders.

I dragged my thumb down the side of her neck, along the delicate vein that pulsed below the surface. “My hand is nowhere near the wine or your mouth. How exactly am I cheating?”

“You play dirty.”

“If this night goes according to plan, you’ll find out just how dirty.”

Her wineglass shook, but she didn’t shrug me off. Without further delay, she sipped both wines, swishing the liquid around her mouth. She closed her eyes as she swallowed. My hand stayed on her neck, and I had to restrain myself from pressing my lips to the dip at her collarbone, to feel the speed of her pulse.

She tapped her left glass. “The Lynmar. Cherry cola and cranberry on the front end with a hint of smoke and fig on the finish. Silky texture.” She ran a slender finger over the stem of the right glass. “The Foursight is also stunning, but any winemaker worth their salt can make something beautiful out of the 2013 harvest. The Lynmar proves skill and perseverance bring success.”

Passion bled through her words, as though she were talking about more than vintages, and her conviction stirred something in my chest. It had been a lifetime since I’d really talked wine with someone, shared my passion. Although I couldn’t stay away from viticulture, I didn’t twist the knife in my gut by attending tastings or trading notes with enthusiasts. The back-and-forth I shared with Cameron was as close to discussions as I’d get.

“It’s a valid point, but there’s no arguing with excellence. 2013 bred excellence. Being the best of a shitty year doesn’t make for the kind of wine that brings your taste buds to their knees.” I turned to Cameron. “Is she right?”