Page 22 of Legs

We were sequestered, no one beside me or across the table to eavesdrop, but I snatched my hand back. “I can’t believe I tasted a Screaming Eagle and don’t remember. That’s criminal.”

“You loved it, if that helps.” He lowered his voice, a quiet rumble just for me. “I think you liked it best when I poured a drop on your pussy before I ate you out.”

What? Whatwhatwhat? It was all too much. Missing that wine, my possible orgasm with those full lips between my thighs. That wine. The knowledge of what I’d missed was worse than the Butt Crack Incident.

I turned toward him and hissed, “This conversation ends now. We’re in a room with other people, and I need to focus. Keep the P-word to yourself.”

He mumbled something about me having no issues shouting pussy in Vesper, and I cursed Reckless Rachel for the thousandth time.

I forced my attention to our tasting. Five glasses of Pinot Noir faced me, my pens neatly lined up. A paper with five numbers listed in rows awaited my answers. My phone buzzed, stopped, then buzzed again. For sure my mother. I ignored the noise, but Jimmy frowned at my purse, then he snatched one of my pens.

I gawked at him. “That’s mine.”

“You have two.”

“In case one runs out of ink.”

“You need to write down five names. What kind of crappy pens run out of ink after five names?”

I gritted my teeth. My phone buzzed again, him and that noise equally as grating. He also didn’t return the pen. Not only did he not return it, but he placed his index finger at the base of my other one and tapped it out of position. I moved it back perpendicular. He tapped it again.

Motherfucker.

I dug my fingers into his side and pinched. “Next time I go for the nipple. Don’t mess with me.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

Probably both. My phone vibrated again, my mother never one to trust voicemail. (What if you’re abducted and can’t get to the phone? What if you’ve had a seizure?) Unable to add her to my stress, I reached in and silenced my cell. To afford participating in this contest, I’d taken a receptionist job at my gym. So unless I wanted to fold towels for a living, it was time to get my head in the game.

I plucked my remaining pen from the table, took a deep breath, and swirled the first glass. From nothing but a sniff and sip we had to name the region, extra points awarded for the winery and year.

My father had belonged to a wine club. Once I’d shown interest, he brought me along to tastings. Some were lateral, where we’d compare one wine across vintages. Others compared grape varieties. When I got them right, he’d hold up my sheet and boast about it to the room, then we’d talk wine the whole drive home. Hopefully those nights had left their mark.

The Nose already had his schnozinator in his glass, no doubt picking up every nuance. Jimmy was in no rush, swirling and sniffing. I steadied my hand, lifted my glass, and inhaled.

Black cherry. That was a given for most Pinots. I mentally reviewed the classes I’d taken, searching for the characteristics that defined each region. Dark plum for New Zealand, cranberry and earth for Oregon, and the subtle barnyard aroma from France. I sipped and swirled and inhaled, narrowing the possibilities. Guessing the years would be harder, the wineries a shot in the dark. Good thing I’d pored over Crush’s wine list the past week.

As I lifted my second glass again, Jimmy whispered, “Number three happened on my living room floor. After the butt shot.”

My wine nearly sloshed on the table.

Us. Naked. On his floor. After the butt shot he wasn’t supposed to mention. But I didn’t even care. That must have been the memory that resurfaced, and I wanted to disappear in those sensations again—us rocking together, skin against skin.

If we’d been alone, no test or audience around, I’d have given up my charade. I’d have straddled him on that chair, ground against him and eased the ache building under my skirt. Passion. Lust. Cravings. Things I’d never experienced lit under my skin in a tantalizing cocktail. But we had an audience, and I had a test to ace.

The rest went relatively smoothly. Except for the moments Jimmy leaned over to list how orgasms four, five, and six had gone down—in his kitchen, the last two between his sheets. God have mercy. Wines four and five gave me trouble, but by the time my final answers were on the page, I was pleased.

The Nose folded his arms, smug as hell. Jimmy took his time.

He tapped my pen on the table, his bedroom eyes back on me, my skirt ready to combust. “You think you did well?” he asked.

I sat straighter, hiding my answers. “Do you doubt my ability?”

“I don’t doubt you. The real question is, do you still doubt me? Do I need to prove I can make you scream my name with a lick of my tongue?”

Bad Boy didn’t mince words, and I liked it—his dangerous air, his confidence. He had me rethinking my stance on one-night stands. Or two-night stands. My awkwardness with him had receded, jokes and flirtations in its place. He had me at ease. Yes, I wanted a relationship and he wouldn’t be that man, but for the first time ever, I felt as though I could pull off a fling.

May as well strike while the iron was hot. “If you pass this session,” I said, my determination building, “I might consider testing your claim. For scientific reasons.”