Page 41 of One Wild Wish

His concern melted something in my chest, though. I could no longer deny my pure need for Bad Boy, but the gentleness in his soothing tone threatened my plan. Our time together would be research and nothing more. I would explore my sensuality and take pleasure for myself. I wouldn’t fall for him.

He squeezed my legs. “I’ll be done soon. And for the record, your friends are terrifying.”

I would have laughed, offered a witty reply, but my rising body heat burned a path up my lungs. He kissed the top of my head and returned to cashing out.

Breathless, I waited.

Ten minutes later, his hand was on my lower back as he guided me toward his Harley, all that black and chrome glinting with danger. The bike I’d always wanted to ride, with the guy I would be riding shortly. He passed me a helmet and stared a beat too long. “You really are beautiful.”

I almost dropped the helmet.

He straddled his bike and nodded for me to join him. “You better hold on tight.”

And never let go, I thought. A notion I needed to extinguish. Every second with him became riskier, his compliments and gestures planting roots in my heart. I slung my leg over his metal beast and plastered myself to his back. There was that scent again—leather and spice with a hint of gasoline. Unadulterated man. My mother would have fainted at the sight of us. He paused, tightening my arms around him and resting his hand over mine. My belly dipped. It was an intimate gesture, sweet. Something a boyfriend would do.

Then he revved the engine.

* * *

The kissing began before we made it into his apartment. He slammed my back against the wall, one hand anchoring my neck, the other branding my hip as his lips crushed mine. And the sound I made? I’d never been so filled with longing, so utterly undone. That motorcycle ride had flipped my bad-girl switch—wind in my face, Jimmy between my thighs, the roar of the engine. The trip to his place had been both too fast and too slow.

And we hadn’t made it past his hallway.

I’d never groped a man in a public space, let him suck my neck and squeeze my breast and rock his erection into my belly, but I was lost. Entranced. Absorbed in the feel of him. I latched one leg around his, palmed his ass, whimpered into his mouth. Heat scorched my core. An answering groan rumbled from his chest. His tongue stroked mine, his lips hard yet soft.

“Inside,” he murmured.

“Not yet,” came my reply, because I liked this. I liked that we could get caught. Any moment, someone could happen upon us, all roaming hands and gasping as we explored each other. It only made me hotter. Regular Rachel would never have been so bold; that was a job for Reckless Rachel. With only two glasses of wine in my system, my abandon wasn’t alcohol induced.

I was drunk on Jimmy.

He kissed me harder, his cock like steel against my hip. I did that to him. I was driving the man wild. With a grunt, he gripped my shoulders and pushed away, his full lips puffier and glistening from our kiss. He eyed me hungrily. The thick line of him stretched his jeans, and I gripped his length, stroking and squeezing through the worn denim. He rocked, unsteady on his feet.

Two strokes later, he gripped my wrist, stilling my greedy movements. He shoved his hand into his front pocket and fished out a key. Working quickly, he led us in, then kicked the door shut, crushing his mouth back on mine.

I tugged his hair.

He bit my neck.

We devoured each other.

He pulled back long enough to toss his jacket and undo the top button of my blouse, but he fumbled, an impatient “Fuck” following. He growled and ripped it open, plastic buttons pinging against his floor.

There went piece seven in the ensemble. “That was an important part of my wardrobe,” I said, bra exposed, goose bumps spreading across my stomach.

He stared, eyes hooded. “Seeing your tits was more important than saving that shirt.”

The man had a way with words.

His apartment came into focus then. It looked the same as last time, just as barren. And lonely. As vacant as the room was, the shadows of what we’d done in here still teased me. I replayed Jimmy’s stories, picturing us uncorking the Screaming Eagle and laughing together, him taking that ridiculous butt shot. We’d had fun, he claimed, and I sensed it, the ease with which I lost myself around him proof enough.

His hands gripped my waist, warm and rough, and I jumped at the contact. He sucked a path down my neck and tugged my bra cup lower, just below my nipple. I dropped my head back on a sigh. His scruff scratched my sensitive flesh…and Jesus, he bit me. A subtle sting, surprising in its pressure. Surprising in how good it felt. He moved, walking me backward, his mouth busy on my breast, my hands in his hair, until the back of my legs hit his bed. With a light shove, I fell onto his mattress, but he didn’t join me. He toed off his boots and pulled off my heels.

Then he looked.

And looked.

He rubbed his hand over his jeans, stroking his cock through the fabric, soaking me in like I was a porn star splayed for his amusement. I wanted to touch myself, too. In private, I used my vibrator (the Dildo Incident had its plus side), but I’d never masturbated in front of a man. Now my fingers drifted across my ribs, a slow drag toward my jeans. But I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be as bold as Jimmy, who was basically jacking himself off at the foot of the bed.