Brave Enough

by M. Leighton

  “You sound like my father,” she says, closing her book and sliding her fingers over my palm.

  “I sound like a winemaker.”

  “That you do.”

  SEVEN

  Weatherly

  Tag is a masculine force to be reckoned with. Dear God, when his attention is concentrated so solely on me, I find it hard to think about anything except him. The way his eyes seem lighter when he laughs. The way he glances at my lips when I talk and then licks his own, like he’s thinking of tasting me. The way he tilts his head to one side when he’s considering something I’ve said. The way he touches his palm to my lower back when we move from one place to another. Everything about him has this magnetic quality to it—his voice, his eyes, his laugh, his smile—and I’m drawn. Attracted. Fascinated, even though I’m still trying not to be.

  I was ready to run recklessly into something with him. It felt immediately right and wild and rebellious. But when Amber showed up last night . . . well, that put things into perspective for me. While I might want to be a casual Amber kind of girl for a few weeks, the reality is that I’m not. I don’t like to share and I don’t like the idea of being worn for a day and then tossed aside. Maybe it’s my breeding. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Maybe it’s my lack of a more normal childhood. I don’t know, but there are limits to how much caution I can throw to the wind and still be able to live with myself. Last night, I found the first limit.

  Still yet, I find myself increasingly willing to believe what Tag said—that he didn’t even think of Amber last night. Not only do I want to believe it, I can relate to it. He has occupied a staggering amount of my brain space since he appeared in the bathroom door yesterday. Despite all that awaits me back in my Atlanta reality, I’ve thought mostly of him. Of this intriguing man and why he makes me feel the way he does.

  “So that’s why I thought maybe these would nicely complement the other varieties that we grow and bottle here,” Tag says. “This grape is hardy, well-suited for this climate. And the wine is light and aromatic, an interesting addition to our bolder ones. Sometimes bold is what we need, but other times, a lighter touch is necessary.” As he speaks, he watches me with eyes that have turned a stormy gray. Without looking away, he takes a single grape from the tray behind him. I watch, hypnotized by the velvet of his voice, as he rolls the grape between the pads of his fingers. “This fruit is firm and supple. The flavor exquisite. My mouth waters just thinking about it.” Lightly squeezing, always rolling. My nipples pucker to stinging points within the confines of my lacy bra, almost as though he’s rolling them between his nimble fingertips.

  My eyes follow the plump grape as he lifts it to his mouth and slips it between his sculpted lips. I can practically feel the pop as the skin bursts and juice floods his mouth. His soft moan vibrates in the air around me, tingling over my skin, nearly triggering an answering rumble within me.

  “Delicious,” he whispers, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small grin as he chews. I drag my eyes up to his to find them sparkling down at me. “I bet you’re dying for a taste, aren’t you?” A blush stings my cheeks. He knows exactly what he just did to me, damn him!

  “Isn’t that what you brought me out here for? A taste?”

  God, the innuendo . . . it makes my blood bubble right inside my veins.

  “Indeed,” he replies, unmoving, always watching. “I don’t want to move from this spot yet, though.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The way the light is pouring into your hair, the way it shines on half your face, you look . . . ethereal.”

  Air seems to swell in my chest, like a shiny red balloon slowly inflating, making it hard to breathe.

  “Are those grapes to blame for your sweet tongue?” I ask a little breathily.

  “You are to blame. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman more striking, more captivating.”

  We are standing no more than a foot apart and I’d swear that I can actually feel the gravity of him pulling me closer, begging me to sway in his direction. I stand up straighter, plant my feet firmer.

  “I thought you might prefer blondes.”

  I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth. We were enjoying each other’s company. Why did I have to go and ruin it?

  Only it doesn’t seem that I did. As he assured me that he didn’t last night, Tag doesn’t seem to give Amber even a passing thought. “I prefer you. Not brunettes or redheads or blondes or anyone so . . . general. What I prefer, what I want, is an exotic, dark-haired beauty who tempts me before she pushes me away, who tells me no with her lips and yes with her eyes. What I want is everything that’s within arm’s reach and all that is a thousand miles out of my grasp.”

  My heart is thumping wildly inside the bony confines of my ribs—a butterfly desperate to break free of her ivory cage. “She might not be so exotic once you get to know her. She might just be a sterling pedigree and nothing more.”

  “I don’t care about the pedigree. To hell with pedigrees.”

  “In my world, they’re all that matter.”

  “But you’re in my world now. Here, the only thing that matters is whether or not you want me to kiss you as badly as I want to. Here, we are all that matter.”

  “And what happens when I leave here?”

  “You came here to let go. Tomorrow doesn’t have to matter until it arrives.”

  “You paint a tempting picture, Mr. Barton.”

  His lips twist into a lopsided grin. “I’m giving it hell, that’s for sure.”

  “Am I going to regret this?” I ask, catching and holding my breath as he draws slowly, steadily closer to me.

  “Not one damn minute.”

  When his face is so close it begins to blur, I half expect him to take my mouth viciously, violently. With all the crazy, inexplicable want that I feel for him. But he doesn’t. He treats my lips just like he did the grape. He tastes, tests. Savors.

  The touch of his mouth is firm yet soft in all the right ways. It brushes lightly over mine, back and forth, his breath tickling my flesh. I stand perfectly still, caught in the magic of the moment, the scent of him, the feel of him, the promise of him.

  “Weatherly,” he breathes, running the tip of his tongue over my bottom lip in a leisurely lick. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something so much.”

  His mouth teases mine as he speaks, each word a delicate caress that touches my lips and then resonates through me in featherlight shockwaves.

  His tongue traces a silky line to the corner of my mouth and then kisses that spot. “Open for me,” he says.

  I do. Instantly. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

  I part my lips and welcome Tag in. His mouth covers mine and his tongue dips inside, beginning as a tentative exploration. One hand sweeps up my back and curls around my nape, Tag’s fingers weaving into my hair. Chills spread down my arms and I lean into him, sinking into his kiss like it’s a pool of warm, inviting honey.

  A soft moan escapes my throat. Seconds later, an answering growl vibrates in Tag’s chest. And then I feel fire. The tilt of his head is the only warning I get before his other hand slides around my waist and crushes me to him.

  Tag’s lips become fierce. Hungry. His tongue becomes persistent. Persuasive. All the palpable chemistry between us ignites, exploding into the voracious devouring that I was expecting from the start.

  I’m not ready for it to be over when he pulls away, panting as hard as I am. We’re still mashed together from chest to thigh and I can feel the race of his heart, mirroring my own. “Holy shit!” he breathes.

  “Wow,” I whisper, feeling dizzy and off-kilter after those few whirlwind seconds.

  Tag’s lovely lips split into a smug grin. “Damn right. See how good we are together?”

  I say nothing. I don’t argue. Because I can’t. There’s simply no denying that
there’s something powerful between us. Maybe it’s just physical. Maybe it’s something more. I have no way of knowing and only one way of finding out.

  Jump.

  Dive in.

  Let go.

  It’s inappropriate. He’s all wrong for me. My father would kill me. But none of that matters. In my world it would. But I’m not in my world. Like Tag said, I’m in his. And here, we are the only thing that matters.

  His lips take mine again, this time in a slower exploration, tasting me like he might taste a fine wine. Savoring. Relishing. Memorizing every deep, sultry note of my mouth. When he pulls away again, I nearly groan. I could spend the entire day kissing him, steeping in the way he makes me feel.

  “Spend the day with me. Get to know me. Let me reacquaint you with Chiara. Let me show you.”

  “Show me what?”

  “Show you everything.”

  My hesitation is brief. Very brief. He’s offering me his time, his patience, his world. And I’m willing to take it all. Learn it all. Experience it all. “Okay,” I say in immediate agreement. “Show me.”

  —

  I stand at the bottom of the front steps, waiting, looking out at the beautiful landscape. Chiara is set in the lower third of Brasstown Bald. It’s part of the Appalachian mountain range as well as the highest point in all of Georgia. The steep grade is perfect for raising grapes. The rain, characteristic of our hot, humid summers, just runs right off, ensuring that the roots of the vines don’t rot. It also provides earth that is conducive to several varieties of grapes, as well as an ever-present breeze and some of the state’s most amazing views. I drink in the gorgeous and unruly mountains, glad once more that I came here for refuge. They’ve always held a piece of my soul, much like Chiara herself has, and I feel the pull now more than ever.

  I hear the high whine of an engine and I bring my thoughts back to what I’m doing here—waiting. I didn’t know quite what to expect when Tag brought me back to the house, asked if I had some shorts and then told me to go change and meet him out front in ten minutes. But now, watching him pull up in the circular drive on the back of a mean-looking four-wheeler, I have all the clarification I need.

  “Climb on, baby. I’m gonna take you for the ride of your life,” he says with a mischievous wink.

  My insides jump and twitch at what lies just beneath his words. I don’t doubt for a second that every minute spent with Tag could qualify as the ride of a lifetime. He’s wearing faded jeans and a white tank top that shows off his broad, tan shoulders, and his eyes are shielded by sexy sunglasses. Everything about him is alluring, exciting, mesmerizing. His looks, his words, his smile, his touch—together or apart, they pull me in like the earth pulls the moon.

  Tag pats the seat behind him, his grin as dazzling as the bright, hot Georgia sun. Something tells me that even if my brain started firing off no, no, no, my heart would still propel my body forward. It seems to control my legs—making them move toward him, making them weak when I think about his kiss.

  I swing onto the vinyl seat, noting the picnic basket strapped to the back. For about ten seconds, I indulge in a little fantasy about a romantic tryst in the mountains, but all thought disappears from my mind when Tag reaches back to grab behind my knees and pull me snugly up against his hips and back. His hands linger on my skin a fraction too long, just long enough to send a thrill up my thighs to land where I’m pressed against him.

  “Can’t have you falling off,” he says, his fingers trailing slowly down my bare calves before he leans forward to start the engine.

  He twists the throttle a couple of times before we lurch forward suddenly. I squeal, nearly unseated. Instinctively, I wind my arms around Tag’s waist in a death grip. I feel his chuckle rumble through his back and into my chest more than I actually hear it. “That’s better.”

  I hide my smile against the warm, smooth skin of his shoulder. I have to admit that I agree with him—this is better. Being so close to him, feeling so protected by him. It just feels right to be wrapped around Tag this way. I’m tall for a woman, but he’s so much bigger and taller, I fit him perfectly. Like we were made for each other. I can’t help wondering if he notices it, too.

  I have to roll my eyes at my own sappy thoughts. In some ways, I feel like a teenage girl with a crush, a crush that drags the object of my infatuation into every waking thought and fantasy. I’ll have to draw the line if I start writing Mrs. Tag Barton on napkins and notebooks, though.

  We dart off down a well-worn path that cuts through a field that is slated for expansion. Tag stops and explains his vision for the new crop he wants to plant, reminding me of the grapes we tasted earlier. “I never got around to letting you taste some of the wine. Somebody was tempting me with something even sweeter,” Tag says with a playfully pointed look over his shoulder in my direction.

  “Don’t look at me! I was just there for the grapes.”

  “You were?” he asks, feigning insult. Then, without warning, he twists further in his seat, grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger and kisses me again. It’s short and hot and right next door to violent. It takes my breath away, and when he sinks his teeth into my bottom lip before letting me go, my entire lower half bursts into flame.

  I gasp.

  “Uhhh,” he groans, swiping my lip with his tongue as though he’s soothing away the sting. “I love the little noises you make. So damn sexy.”

  “That’s what happens when you bite me,” I say absently, embarrassingly breathless and addled.

  “Then I’ll have to bite you more often,” he declares, leaning closer to nip gently at the skin along my neck. Chills spread down my arms and the muscles between my legs squeeze deliciously. When he pulls away, he’s wearing a wry grin. “But I’ll have to hold off until later.”

  “Why is that?” I can’t even muster the composure to pretend that I don’t want him to continue.

  “Any more of that and I’m liable to embarrass myself.” His grin is self-deprecating. Tag is clearly the kind of man who’s used to a lot of attention and he doesn’t seem like the kind to lose control easily. The thought that I might push him to that point makes me feel oddly powerful.

  “We can’t have that, now, can we?”

  “Not when I’m trying to impress you.”

  “Why are you trying to impress me?”

  “I’m not used to women like you.”

  “Women like me?”

  “Yeah, women like you.” I want to ask exactly what kind of woman that is, but Tag gives the corner of my mouth a quick kiss and then turns around in his seat, ready to take me to the next stop.

  “This is probably new since you were here last,” he says, pausing on the crest of a hill that looks down on twelve long, new rows of vines surrounding a half-finished cottage. I can already see the cozy comfort of it taking shape, though, right down to the wide porch that faces west, overlooking the steep mountainside.

  “It’s beautiful!”

  “Thank you. I can’t wait to finish it.”

  “You’re building it?”

  Tag turns a mildly outraged look on me. “Why is that so surprising?”

  “I just didn’t . . . I didn’t realize you were a man of so many talents. That’s all.”

  His expression melts into the sensually aware one I’m finding so unnerving. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  The sun is slanting in on half his face, allowing me to see his eyes behind his glasses. I see them flicker down to my mouth and then back to my eyes. “That kiss back there? That was the Blanc du Bois kiss. Light with some bite. But these are the new merlot vines. They’re dark and deep in color, so any kissing here should reflect that, don’t you think?”

  He’s leaning toward me very slowly, giving anticipation plenty of time to collect into a liquid ball in the center of my stomach. I’m so focused on his mouth drawing close that I
don’t even see his real intent coming. Tag grips me around the waist and hauls me around and into his lap, my legs automatically straddling him. Heat pours into my cheeks at my position, but I don’t have one second longer to think about it before Tag is consuming me once again.

  He drives his fingers up into my hair, holding me still for the crush of his mouth on mine. This kiss is different. It is dark and deep. Tag’s lips open mine, his tongue shooting hot and ready between them. It licks relentlessly along mine, coaxing and convincing, begging me to give up all thought and control to him.

  And I do.

  I’m completely lost in sensation when his hands skate down my body to settle at my hips. His fingers dig in and urge my lower body closer to his, rubbing me along the ridge of his very obvious erection. I sigh into his kiss and his answering groan vibrates through the moist recesses of my mouth.

  “Damn you,” he growls when he wrenches his lips away. Before I can respond, Tag pulls me into his body again, grinding his hardness between my legs. I gasp, my back arching involuntarily. “You’re gonna make me embarrass myself anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Th-this embarrasses you?” I ask, my core on fire with want. I don’t even have the energy to feel ashamed or to second-guess what I’m doing. I wanted to let go, and the moment I did, Tag was right there to catch me. To catch me and to make sure that I couldn’t think twice.

  “To act like a damn horny teenager every time I see you? To have my cock come throbbing to life every time I think of you?” He releases my hips and I wish for a second that he hadn’t, that we could sneak into the half-finished cabin and finish what we started. His boyish grin doesn’t help to settle me down either. “It’s not the most flattering thing for a man not to be able to control his own body when he’s around a woman. But you’re not just any woman, are you?” He studies me with those hypnotic eyes of his and I feel myself falling further and further under his spell. “You’re a woman with a body made for sin and a mind full of delicate sensibilities.”

  “I don’t have delicate sensibilities.”