Page 117 of One Wild Wish

“What would be your worst way to die?” she asked between sips of water. “Like, your most terrifying option.”

“Zombie bite to the nuts.”

She snorted out a stream of liquid, then slapped a hand over her face. It only made her cuter. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Too bad I didn’t have my phone out. I could have videoed it.” Come to think of it, she hadn’t touched her phone, either. Our conversation had been effortless, jokes and silly topics thrown between us. And there had been touching. Subtle brushes of her fingers on my wrist as she talked. My blood vessels swelled with each connection, her bright mood making my blood sing. Whatever barrier she’d thrust between us had toppled.

“Seriously though,” she said. “Zombie bite to the nuts? Why?”

“If you’d ever been kicked in the nuts, you’d understand.” I reached down and shifted my jeans at the agonizing thought. Ainsley’s gaze followed my movements. The heat in her eyes had me adjusting for other reasons.

“Men have low pain thresholds. It can’t hurt that badly.”

“You have no idea.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’d probably skip a week of work for period cramps.”

The one and only time I’d had a solid shot to the nuts had involved a soccer cleat, a missed kick, and me rolling on the ground. “If period cramps feel like being punched in the gut with Thor’s hammer, followed by simultaneously wanting to puke and shit yourself, then yeah, you’re probably right. I’d take a sick day.”

“Baby,” she mumbled.

“What about you? Worst way to die.”

She tore off a piece of naan bread, scooped the last of our chana masala, and hummed as she swallowed. “If we’re talking fictional, then molten gold poured over my head.”

I froze mid-sip of my beer. “As in Game of Thrones ?”

“Obviously.”

“I didn’t peg you for a fantasy lover.”

“I have eclectic taste in music and TV. My dad got me into fantasy stuff, and Khal Drogo boiling Viserys Targaryen’s brain to give him his ‘gold crown’ was gruesomely awesome. Bad way to go.”

She played word games, loved to hike, watched violent fantasy shows, her raspy voice exuded sex, and she looked like she walked off the set of Some Like it Hot . I couldn’t have dreamed up this woman. “And if we’re talking real life?”

She shuddered. “Death by submarine.”

“Meaning a submarine falling on you, or dying in a submarine?”

She glowered at my teasing. “Dying in a submarine, smartass. Walking into one would give me an instant heart attack.”

“You have issues with confined spaces?”

“I’m a tad claustrophobic. Tend to hyperventilate and thrash widely when boxed in. It isn’t pretty.”

Even now, her cheeks paled. The notion of her stressed and anxious did strange things to my chest. It had me wanting to run my thumb between her eyes, erase the crease settling there. “Do subways bother you?”

“I avoid them.”

“Elevators?”

“I get sweaty.”

Images of a flushed and dewy Ainsley flipped through my mind. Her curvy body under me. Over me. Locked in my arms. “Must make getting around tough.”

“I deal with it. It just gets uncomfortable at times.”

Like sitting across from her and not leaning over to taste her pulse point. A crumb from the naan clung to the edge of her mouth. Needing to touch her, I reached to brush it off. The tip of my finger dragged by her lips. Those plump, bee-stung lips. Her breasts rose on an inhalation, my nearness affecting her as much as it was me. My cock grew heavy, my body buzzing with desire. The urge to get our check and get gone was potent, but chatting with her was fun, too. Slowly, I sat back.