Page 53 of Legs

Leaning on an elbow, I shoved her dress above her bra, my jeans thick and rough against her lace underwear. Exactly how she liked it. I didn’t unclasp her bra, didn’t have the patience. Instead I tugged the cups down, and her breasts pushed up, small and perfect, light pink nipples puckered in tight buds.

I fucking loved her tits. And she loved it wild, like me. I squeezed and licked and bit and sucked, while grinding against her. Her fingers dug into my back. My thighs were on fire. She writhed under me, one hand tangling with my hair, forcing our lips together. The kiss wasn’t pretty. It was need and urgency and hunger. It was the pressure of our lives and all we wanted but weren’t sure we could have.

It was us.

I couldn’t wait. The urge to slam into her had me undoing my belt buckle and shoving my jeans past my ass. She shimmied out of her underwear, and then I was in her, all that tight heat beckoning me closer, as though I had a home. A place in Rachel’s life. Her bra was below her tits, the straps of her dress down her shoulders, my jeans at my knees. My hips slammed into hers—hard, sharp, greedy thrusts. She met me each time. I wanted her messy, letting go of her inhibitions. Taking for herself.

“God, Jimmy.” Her face was a display of sensual abandon, her nails on my ass, forcing me deeper.

Hell yes.

“You’re an animal,” I growled. “Exactly how I like you. So fucking hot.”

An animal who pushed a hand up my shirt, found a nipple piercing, and gave it a twist. Heat shot down my spine, my orgasm building. With each thrust, I rubbed against her, pulling out far enough for my barbell to tease her opening and then slamming tight. Harder. Rougher. It felt too good. She felt too good. Dammit if I wasn’t losing my heart to her.

The thought caught in my chest, tangled and twisted, driving my movements. She was on the brink, her pussy clamping around my cock, and I shot off like a rocket. Her spasms followed, both of us riding the wave.

Something crossed her face then, a softening of her eyes, moisture gathering in the corners. Her lips parted, like she was about to speak. Instead she swallowed, and her expression dimmed—her internal light flickering, its power source weakened.

Mine damn near blew out. If this was her closing off again, putting up her walls, it would gut me. I couldn’t keep drifting with her whims. Not after today. Not after this. To me, she could never be a fling.

Sixteen

Rachel

Jimmy walked into the forest to pee before leaving, and I was still high as a kite—the sex, the picnic, the Chardonnay. The sex. The conversation, too. All that school and wine talk had set my mind spinning. I’d stopped considering winemaking as an option, but here it was again, a seed planted, courage growing. The pros and cons unfolded, because of Jimmy.

He’d also unlocked Reckless Rachel in doses. Manageable pieces I could incorporate into my life. I could still feel the roar of the motorcycle under me, the perfection of Jimmy between my thighs.

If I wanted to honor myself, understand what truly made me happy, in the bedroom and out, I’d have to start here. With my bad boy. Not get nervous like I had a moment ago and chicken out from confessing my feelings. I had to forget my concerns and trust that he was ready for a relationship. No more games. No unnecessary complications. When he came back, I’d look him in the eyes and tell him I was all in. I’d take him up on every sleepover offer and add a few suggestions of my own.

I pulled on my leggings for the ride and gathered my jean jacket. As I packed up the food, my phone rang. I’d ignored my mother’s calls the past two days. So jumbled with thoughts of Jimmy and my stalled career, I worried I’d let something slip when I wasn’t ready for the head-on collision. If it was her and I ignored her again, she’d slap my face on a milk carton.

I dropped to my knees and hit Talk. “Hello?”

Whoever was on the other end sucked in her breath. “Is Jimmy there?”

The female voice was sharp and strong, not my mother’s, and unease slicked my gut. Jimmy and I both had black iPhones—the same black cases, neither of us having chosen unique ring tones—which meant this wasn’t my cell. It wasn’t cool to answer Jimmy’s phone. It was intrusive and rude and something I’d never do. With the conversation I wanted to have, this wouldn’t be a great start. If I hung up, he’d never be the wiser, and the person would think they’d dialed the wrong number.

But as I pulled the phone from my ear, the woman said, “I’m his mother, Alena. I know Jimmy doesn’t want to speak with me, but he won’t return my calls. I’m not sure who this is, or if there’s anything you can do to help, but we’ve let this go on too long. We want our son back.”

My breathing spiked, and I searched the trees, worried Jimmy would return any moment and catch me talking to his freaking mother.

Why did I answer the phone?

Or maybe I was supposed to, another twist of fate, like my father’s final apology, my birthday wish, the blackout, and seeing that sommelier poster. Destiny unfolding.

By the sounds of things, Jimmy would have ignored the call, but I’d seen how lonely his life was, how hard it had been for him to sip his family’s wine. I didn’t know the gory details of their fight, but he hadn’t moved on, and they clearly wanted to make amends.

Steeling my voice, I said, “I’m Rachel”—his girlfriend? Fuck buddy? Play thing?—“his friend. He’s just stepped away, but I can talk to him for you, if you’d like.”

She exhaled heavily. “Well, Rachel, that would be appreciated. I’m not sure how well you know my boy, but all the Giannopoulos men are stubborn mules, my husband included. But this business has poisoned our family. I’m concerned about my husband’s health. The stress is wearing him down.”

My stomach cramped, the notion of Jimmy’s father being unwell hitting home. If something happened to the man before they reunited, it would haunt Jimmy. My final argument with my father tortured me to this day, as did the little things—a birthday of his I’d forgotten, the dinner I’d cancelled because I wasn’t in the mood. Stupid stuff, but tiny bumps became moguls, hills became mountains.

“I’ll make sure he gets in touch. Or”—I searched the trees, nerves buzzing—“if you wait, I can put him on the phone.”

Her answer was delayed, until, “I’ll wait, but he might not want to speak with me.”