Going Wild (The Wild Ones 2)

Liam’s eyes slowly scan down the front of my little white sundress and drop to my boots—okay, this is where I tell you I have a small issue. Well, it’s a big issue. An obsession, really.

Cowboy boots.

My small apartment back home has two walls full of boots.

No lie.

It’s where most of my money goes.

Don’t judge me. It’s an addiction. It’s also the one thing in life that brings me unadulterated joy.

“Nice boots,” he says, his lips twitching as I sit down. “Straight off the ranch?”

This freakishly gorgeous guy is really close to getting his ass kicked by these boots.

“I’m a wild one,” catches my attention as someone from the bar sings along.

My grin spreads, and I turn back to face the prick. “These boots are made for walking,” I joke as I stand again. Okay, so it’s a totally cheesy joke that no one even laughs at.

I move to the dance floor and dance with the first guy who has the balls to join me.

I have no idea what his name is, but he’s a sweetheart, and a damn good dancer.

I’m laughing and enjoying myself, when I turn and see Liam watching me, like he’s trying to figure me out. I go back to ignoring him as someone else starts playing the song over.

It makes me a little homesick, but it gives me a piece of home at the same time.

I keep taking shots. And I keep dancing, enjoying myself.

Several other songs play, and before I know it, the once-empty dance floor is now packed full of people. I dance until I’m suddenly plowing against a firm body, and I move a curl out of my face to look up at…Liam.

He smirks down at me.

“How is it you’ve now had ten shots, yet you still seem mostly sober?” he asks, handing me yet another shot of tequila.

“I’m very sober. Are you counting my shots?” I ask, shooting the drink without thinking about the fact he might have done something to it.

I’m not used to having to be wary.

If I feel funny in a second, I’m going to karate chop his dick so hard that he’ll have to fuck a girl around a corner to deal with the new angle it’ll have.

A sardonic smile ghosts his lips before he mouths, “Eleven.”

And then he winks at me.

Even though I hate him a little, and wonder if he’s poisoned or drugged me, for some reason I still smile. His eyes dart down to my lips, and then they flick back up to meet my eyes. He seems amused more than anything.

“Are you going to answer my question?” he asks.

I roll my eyes, still dancing. “Two reasons. One, my family are big drinkers. You grow a tolerance, because no one wants to be the first one who’s drunk at a family event. Two, the shot glasses are half the size of normal shot glasses. And they only fill them half way up. So I’ve maybe had three shots in reality.”

He cocks his head like he’s studying me.

“You’re math is terrible,” he says seriously.

“Thank you,” I deadpan, causing his eyebrow to arch in confusion.

“If you’re not drunk, then why have you spent an hour dancing?”

My eyebrows go up. “I like dancing. Besides, if I had stayed over there, something terrible would have happened.”

He waits expectantly, and I grin at him.

“What?” he finally asks, taking the bait.

“You would have just kept smirking at me and delivering veiled insults.”

His smile spreads for the first time. A real, genuine smile.

I’m human, and I’m capable and crass enough to admit to myself that smile of his is like a live wire straight to my clit. Not that I’d ever tell him that.

“That would be terrible, I suppose,” he says, stepping closer.

“Very,” I agree, wondering if I’m crossing into flirty territory when he tucks another curl behind my ear.

I might even shiver a little when his fingers brush my cheek during the motion. This guy smells as good as he looks. And it’s been…six months? At least six months since the last time I found someone to scratch an itch with.

“You really sure you can skydive? Because tomorrow is no joke,” he says seriously.

My lips twitch.

“You skydive often?” I ask, vaguely aware we’re just standing in the middle of a bunch of people dancing.

“Not too often anymore, but still on occasion. I like the rush it gives me.”

“I’m well-acquainted with adrenaline rushes,” I say with a shrug.

He gives me a dubious look that tells me he doesn’t believe me, but I hold my secretive smile in place, not elaborating.

“You’re a confusing little specimen, Kylie Malone,” he says. I’m not sure why my name sounds so good coming off his lips.

I blame it on all the beards I’ve endured for too long. Our town stopped fornicating when the beards got long enough to hide baby birds in them. The whole nest and momma bird too, in some cases.