Wish I May (9 page)

“Me too. And before.”

Heat flares in his eyes. The intensity of his gaze would scare me if I didn’t already trust this man with every inch of my being.

He presses his mouth against mine as his hand returns between my legs. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s hard—punishing and demanding—and I need it. I could lose myself here, in this kiss that is equal parts desire, anger, and regret. I could forget who I am, what I’ve done, and become the stroke of tongue against tongue, become the pleasure of his hand working between my legs as I moan into his mouth. 

He breaks the kiss and leans his forehead against mine. “You feel so damn good.” His hand moves slowly, smoothly.

How can he affect me so much more than any other man I’ve ever been with? He’s always been the standard by which all other men have been measured and come up short.

I shouldn’t be here with him. I gave up my right to this seven years ago. I take a long drink of my wine—seeking courage and permission for this evening suspended outside of time and heartbreak. One night. One indulgence.

I lift my hips off the seat, seeking out his touch.

“Do you want more?” The words are so low they’re more a vibration against my ear than a sound.

“I’m leaving in a couple of days. I can’t stay.” And that’s the only reason we can do this at all.

His teeth nip my ear again, suck at the lobe before he speaks. “That’s not what I asked, Cally.”

Outside my panties, the pad of his thumb is resting on my clit with nothing but the promise of the pressure I need. When his hand leaves me, I hear my own gasp of protest.

“Come home with me tonight.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. After weeks of looking after my sisters, I need to be something other than a resented stand-in mother. Even if only for a couple of hours in this man’s bed. He deserves the night I once promised him.
I
deserve it. But I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“Then tell me to stop.” The rough pads of his fingers toy with the thin ribbons at my hips. With his free hand, he places a sliced grape to my lips, and I take it, only briefly letting my lips brush his fingertips. His eyes flash—hot and hungry. “Tonight is yours. Whatever you want.”

“This,” I whisper, rolling my hip into his touch.

Then he tugs, and he releases the tie on my panties. His hand snakes around to the other hip, and he grins at me as he frees that side as well.

“Lift,” he whispers, and before I realize what he means to do, he’s slipped my panties from under the table and tucked them in his pocket. He flashes me a small smile as he sips from his wine glass.

My panties are in William Bailey’s pocket.

“You intending to give those back?”

“Not a chance.” But then, instead of heading straight for my newly bare girly bits beneath the table, he cups my face in his big hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek. “Memories have this amazing way of changing on us, and I had myself convinced you couldn’t have been as beautiful as I remembered. I was idealizing you.”

I can’t reply. The heat in his eyes alone is enough to make me want to crawl into his lap. Add the way he’s been touching me, and in this moment, I am his.

“I was right about one thing,” he whispers.

“What’s that?”

“My memory got it all wrong.”

“It did?”

“You’re so much more beautiful than I remembered.”

Our lips touch again and I will myself to memorize every second of this kiss. The soft brush of his lips before he opens his mouth over mine, the patient sweep of his tongue as I open for him, the way he tastes—a potent cocktail of wine and regret.

I don’t even realize his hand has left my face until I feel the possessive wrap of his fingers around my thigh. Then, as he slides to points farther north, I have to break our kiss to catch my breath.

“Jesus,” he hisses as his fingers reach my wet heat.

I almost cry out when he takes my swollen clit between two fingers.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers against my neck. “So damn wet.”

“I—William….” I have to fight to keep my volume down, to keep from moaning.

He’s touching that swollen, sensitive spot in a slow and gentle rub that has me rocking into him.

“You want to know what I’d do to you if you came home with me tonight?”

I’m weak. I want to know, need to hear. “Yes.”

“I’d get you naked because you have too goddamn many clothes on right now. Then I’d start with your amazing breasts. Remember how I could get you off just by kissing your breasts, sucking those beautiful nipples?” He brushes my taut nipples with his free hand and even through my dress and thin bra, the contact is enough to make me gasp. “Answer me, Cally.”

“Yes,” I breathe. His fingers have slowed their movement under my dress, as if he knows how close he is to getting me off and he wants to wait.

He moans appreciatively. “I’d start there. My tongue and lips and teeth on your breasts until I’ve memorized every curve and dip, until you’re begging me for more—” He removes his hand from between my legs, “until you come for me.”

“William.”

“I’ll get you there, baby. I swear. But not yet.” He slides his hand farther up my dress and circles my navel. “Do you want to know more?”

God help me, I do. I want to know it all. And then maybe when I’m back in Las Vegas and wishing I could have him, I’ll shape his words into my very own fantasy. My very own souvenir of my
what-if
life. “Please.”

“Then I’d kiss you here.” He pinches my navel piercing. “Damn, I bet this looks so sexy on you. When did you get it?”

“After I moved.”

He draws back, his eyes hot on mine, his jaw hard. “For a man?”

“No. I got it when I was missing you.”

He moans into my ear then fans his hand out to my waist. “I’d have to take my time there then. I’d run my tongue from hipbone to hipbone, then turn you over and lick down your spine.” He slides his hand across my hip and under my ass. “When I got here,” he says, squeezing, “I’d have to see if you’re as sensitive here as you are everywhere else. Your ass is so incredible, and I can’t forgive myself for neglecting it when I had a chance. I’m dying to bite you
here
.”

He pinches my ass, and my breath draws in sharply. I shudder in his arms and feel his smile against my neck.

“Would you be ready for me then?” As he asks, he returns his hand between my legs, and I find myself scooting to the edge of the seat, parting my thighs to give him better access. I don’t just want him to touch me. I need it. Like water. Like air. I
need
to feel William’s hand between my legs because right now I am nothing but the pulsing ache of my arousal, and it’s the fucking best I’ve felt in months.

No man I’ve ever touched could touch me the way Will does. It’s like he has some sort of ability to intuitively know how I’m feeling.

Even now, sitting at the back of this candlelit restaurant with the wait staff milling around us, he doesn’t rush in his movements. His fingers slide over me, alternately teasing and touching, working anticipation in equal measure against the pleasure.

“What else would you do?” I bite back a moan. “If we were alone?”

“I’d drop to my knees,” he whispers. “And I’d cup your amazing ass in my hands as I tasted you.”

It hurts, sitting here, listening to this, wanting it, knowing I can’t let myself have it. Knowing that tonight, this moment, is all I get.

I curl my nails into his forearm, and he groans in my ear.

“But for now,” he says, “for now I’ll settle for touching with my fingers what I want to taste with my lips.” He slides two fingers inside me, curling them as his thumb rubs my clit. “That’s what I want you to think about next time you touch yourself.”

I shudder, the pressure and pleasure building. “William,” I whimper.

“Because next time my dick is in my hand, I fucking swear that’s what I’ll be thinking about. You. Naked. The taste of your pussy as you come against my tongue.”

Dear God.

I have to bite his neck to muffle my moan as my orgasm hits, hard and fast.

T
HE CAR
is quiet on the drive home, and when I reach for her hand, she lets me take it. I have to remind myself that she’s leaving. That this—the sweet silence of our touch, her soft fingers twined through mine—this isn’t the new normal. I don’t get to keep her. I don’t get to finish what I started at the restaurant. She’s leaving.

When we pull up to the motel, she doesn’t rush from the car, so I turn and press my lips to hers. At first, I think she’s going to pull away, but she opens under me slowly, and what I intended to be a brief goodbye kiss leaves me hard and breathless, and her clawing at my shirt and half in my lap.

We lean our foreheads together and catch our breath.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow? Day after tomorrow maybe? Dad’s home. I just want to get the girls settled, but then I need to get back for work.”

There’s nothing I can say to get her to stay. I’m not even sure I should want her to. Tonight wasn’t real after all. Reality wouldn’t have let me touch her in in public like that. Reality dictates that I stay away from her, that I hate her for what she did to me. Or, at the very least, that I want nothing to do with her.

But tonight wasn’t reality. It was like visiting a memory. And it was perfect.

I walk around to get her door. The moment she steps onto the pavement, I have her pressed against the side of the car, my hands in her hair, my knee between her legs, pressing our bodies as close as possible. Because touching her in the restaurant only made this need for her grow, and now I want her more than ever.

She kisses me back, clings to me, hand fisted in my shirt. Her mouth and hands match the desperation of my own, closer and closer, as if she wants to disappear into me.

I want more. I want to put her back in the car and take her to my house, take her to my bed. Because if tonight is the only stolen moment we get, I don’t want it to end.

But despite all that, I’m the one who breaks the kiss. I’m the one who pulls away. Looking at her doesn’t make it any easier. She’s so fucking beautiful it breaks my heart. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, thick lashes fluttering as she opens her eyes.