by Trish Morey
‘Holly, you are so beautiful.’ He leaned down to kiss her, his hand stroking her from her shoulder to her knee, and it was so intoxicating, so magical to her senses, that she barely noticed when he reached for his wine.
She felt the dribble against her lips, recognised it for what it was and felt his hot mouth lapping at hers, their tongues tangling, sharing the wine.
A drop landed on her chest, and she gasped, but he was there to lap it up before it could slide away. Another on a nipple, his tongue curling to chase the wine, drawing her nipple into his mouth and sending spears of sensation between her thighs where she could feel the pulsing, aching heat.
Her other nipple demanded the same, received the same, and Holly pushed her head back into the pillows and arched into his mouth.
A line of drops down her belly and Holly sensed where this was going. He didn’t need to. They’d done that. There was no point—
And then she felt him part her, felt the cool slide of wine against her hot flesh and his hot tongue and need spiralled within her and it was a battle to stay afloat. She didn’t want to come this way because she’d already come this way, but neither could she stop as sensation piled upon sensation until it seemed there was nowhere else to go.
Her fingers clung to his head as fingers stroked that aching place, massaging, loosening, as his mouth played her. She felt the slide of his finger inside her, and then another, felt their play against her inner flesh and a coiling need turned incendiary and consumed her in a roaring whoosh of flame.
She heard a rip and a tear but she was still coming down when she felt the press of him there, still too drugged and dazed and spent to tense and fear, even when he nudged at her entrance. She just felt the pressure at her core and she wanted it and welcomed it and angled her hips to meet him, and with a blinding flicker of pain that had her cry out, he was inside her, holding still, waiting.
He kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘Are you all right?’
And she nodded because she was, and it was strange, this new sensation, of muscles shifting and making way, of feeling his long slow slide into her body until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
Better than okay.
Because now there was a delicious friction. Flesh against slick flesh, and new-found muscles to experiment with and increase the friction. And she wouldn’t have thought it possible—hadn’t she only just climaxed?—but this was different, this build-up was coming from inside, and building with every long slide. She clung to him as he increased the tempo, needing a rock to hold her steady while sensation built upon sensation and threatened to carry her away. But there was no escaping, no place to hide, as he took her higher, the exquisite pressure building to fever pitch as he took a nipple between his teeth as he thrust into her, and it was all she needed to go hurtling over the edge once again.
It took a while to come back to earth, for her breathing to slow, for her heart rate to calm, but still her flesh hummed and her mind buzzed with the sheer wonderment of what had just happened.
‘Thank you,’ she said to the man who lay sweat-slicked, his skin glistening, at her side. ‘That was very nice.’
He opened a pair of sex-drugged eyes. ‘Do you feel any different?’
‘Yes, I do. I feel—’ she sucked in air ‘—amazing!’
He curved one hand around a breast. ‘That you do.’
‘Do you think …’ she ventured. ‘Is there any chance we could do it again?’
His slumbering cock woke up with a jolt, but he wasn’t so sure. It would no doubt be mind-blowing, as before, but there was danger here too, he recognised. He didn’t want her thinking this meant anything.
His every instinct told him to pull back now.
‘Do you think that’s wise? Your little problem has now been taken care of, so you don’t actually need me. You can go have sex with anyone you like and nobody will ever know.’ Although why that thought didn’t make him any happier, he didn’t know.
‘Yeah,’ she said, running her fingers through the spring of hair on his chest, ‘but I can hardly call myself experienced. There’s more to learn, I know there is. And you’re only here a couple more weeks anyway. Why shouldn’t we take advantage? I won’t tell if you won’t.’
He shook his head. He really should get her up and dressed and drop her home.
‘It’s madness, Holly. You’ve had sex. You’re no longer a virgin. That was the deal.’
‘Only that thing you did with the wine.’ she ventured.
Dio, he shouldn’t ask. He knew he shouldn’t. ‘What about it?’
‘I’d really like to try that on you.’
And his growing erection twitched and bucked and he knew he was lost.
Hours later he woke with her in his arms. Soon, he knew, the grey fingers of dawn would work their way through the curtains. The night had been long and full of the pleasures of the flesh and he knew he had to get her back to the house. It was madness that she was still here. But she was warm and relaxed in his arms and he thought, just a few minutes more.
And then she stirred and stretched and he pulled her in tight against him, pressing his lips to her hair, and she responded by turning in his arms and winding her arms around his neck. He felt her breasts against his chest and the curl of her hair against his belly and it was enough to stir his half-ready body again.
‘Are you hurting?’ he asked.
‘I feel wonderful,’ she said against his mouth, and he felt her smile on his lips. ‘I feel like I’ve been liberated from what was starting to feel like a life sentence. Thank you.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, his own smile on his lips when they met hers. One of her hands skimmed down his side, hesitating at that raised cord of scar tissue, and he stiffened, waiting for the question he knew was coming.
‘What is this?’
‘Nothing,’ he answered, the way he always did.
‘Were you in a car crash?’
‘No.’
‘Then—’
‘Dammit, Holly,’ he said, shoving back the covers as he strode from the bed, any sense of wellbeing demolished. They’d shared great sex, sure, but that didn’t mean she had to know the intimate details of his life. His private life was private and he intended to keep it that way. She was temporary. Whereas his scar—his reminder—was permanent. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I was just asking.’
‘It’s time I took you home.’
‘Fine,’ she said, collecting up underwear and shimmying into it coyly in the bed like he hadn’t already explored every inch of her naked body. Women were mad, he thought, pulling on his trousers. ‘I just don’t know why it’s such a big deal.’
And the control he’d once prided himself on, the control he’d found sorely tested ever since he’d turned up and met prickly Ms Purman, threatened to blow.
‘I donated a kidney to—’ my five-year-old daughter ‘—a friend. That’s all. End of story. Satisfied?’
She looked up at him in the watery light of predawn. ‘That’s all? But that’s an amazing thing to do.’
His lips pulled tight into a grimace and he shook his head. ‘It might have been,’ he said, as empty as the day she’d left them. ‘If she’d made it.’
‘Oh, Franco. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said, pulling his jumper over his head, wishing he’d taken her home after the first time they’d made love like he’d intended. Like he should have and would have if he hadn’t been blindsided by sex. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
He pulled on shoes and his jacket and grabbed his keys, wondering how it was that every time they talked she seemed to remind him of his mother or his siblings or his daughter, always dredging up the past, always digging up things he wanted to stay buried. ‘Are you coming?’
She lay unsleeping on her bed in the short space between dawn and morning proper, after twenty-eight years, no longer a virgin. She wouldn’t go back in a heartbeat, not after the pleasures Franco had introduc
ed her to this night.
She clutched the sheets around her chest. She would never forget this night. She would never forget Franco. She just wished it hadn’t ended so badly. He’d dropped her home with barely a word, his chiselled jaw rigid, his grey eyes as cold as the clouds that dropped icy fat drops on her as she ran inside.
He was hurting. He’d tried to make out that his scar meant nothing, but she’d felt his pain in the struggle he’d had to even acknowledge it.
He’d donated a kidney to a friend. He’d given a part of himself to another. What kind of man did that? Not the kind of man she’d thought Franco to be when he’d blown into her world those few short weeks ago. He wasn’t that man. He was so much more.
And he was hurting, his friend lost, no matter the sacrifice he’d made, his scar a constant reminder.
Of course he would be hurting.
And she lay in her bed and ached for a man who wasn’t hers to ache for.
His hip ached. He rolled over in bed but his hip still ached. He lay on his back and still his hip ached. So in the end, sick of thrashing, he got out of bed and stood by the window in the living room. The cool air would soothe his scar, he told himself, his eyes glued to the flicker of light from the homestead across the vineyard.
She was over there. No doubt tucked up in bed and sleeping peacefully now that she’d finally rid herself of that pesky virgin status.
Now that he’d rid her of that pesky virgin status.
So what was his problem? Why couldn’t he sleep? He’d had the best sex he’d had for as long as he could remember. He should be sleeping like a baby.
Across the vineyard the light danced and shimmied in the cold night air, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think it was meant solely for him, the silent equivalent of the kookaburra’s laugh.
Because it hadn’t been just sex.
With Holly it had never been just about having sex.
Tonight they’d made love.
Air sucked through teeth and rushed into his lungs. How the hell had he let things go so wrong when he’d known the dangers all along? Why hadn’t she listened to him and stayed well away?
Why hadn’t he had the strength of will to resist her?
The lights of the homestead flickered gaily across the darkness, mocking him and mocking all the reasons he’d given her why they shouldn’t have sex.
Because he’d been her first.
Because she might become needy.
And yet here he was, standing at a window across a vineyard looking over to where she lay safely tucked up inside. Because when it came to Holly Purman, no matter what he knew or what he’d learned, he had no strength to resist her.
Who was the needy one now?
Which made the next few weeks hell unless he learned to stay away from her.
And the scar at his hip, knowing that was impossible, ached worse than ever.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘BUT, POP, YOU have to be there! You can’t miss it. This is your night, just as much as it is mine.’
‘I’d love to go, Holly,’ he said, and she could see the dampness in his eyes and the stoic way he kept the tears in check. ‘I wish I could go, but it’s my own bloody fault. If I hadn’t been trying to do too much and fallen over and buggered up all the good work the doctors had done I could go. But if the doctors tell me they won’t let me on a plane, then what choice do I have? I can’t go.’
‘I don’t want to go by myself.’
‘You have to. It’s your night. You’ll just have to get Franco to go with you.’
A weekend alone in Sydney with Franco. Franco hadn’t made so much as a move towards her since the night of the party, and Holly couldn’t pretend the idea wasn’t without appeal. ‘But, Pop …’
‘Don’t “But, Pop” me. I’ve seen the way you look at him, don’t think I haven’t. You like him, don’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘He’s … okay. It’s worked out better than I thought it would. Given he’s a Chatsfield, I mean.’
Gus chuckled. ‘Don’t lay it on too thick or I’ll change my mind. Are you glad now I didn’t let you throw him out on his ear that first day? You sure tried your hardest.’
Was she glad? Definitely in one way. Because she’d learned so much these past weeks from the perils of prejudging to the pleasures of the flesh. And she’d learned so much about herself into the deal.
Then again, maybe it would have been easier if he’d left that day and she’d never seen him again. Because thinking about watching him walk out of her life when the pruning was finished gave her a dull empty ache in her chest. She would miss him when he was gone.
‘I do feel better about the wine deal now.’ And that had nothing to do with Franco, for the Chatsfield siblings seemed to have kept themselves out of the scandal sheets for long enough that it looked like the wine deal may not be the disaster she’d first feared.
Besides, signing the deal meant there was always a chance of seeing Franco in the future.
She wasn’t needy. Truly she wasn’t, but she wouldn’t object if their paths were to cross again.
‘Go on then,’ Gus said, ‘take Franco to Sydney instead of me. Show him the sights and have some fun. And when you win, it might well be a good chance maybe to get some publicity about the deal.’
‘If I win, Pop.’
‘My money’s on you, my girl. That award is as good as yours.’
They were in the vineyard together when she asked him.
‘I’ll come,’ Franco said, albeit warily, ‘if that’s what Gus wants.’ Since the night of the party he’d kept his distance, but to her credit, Holly had too, and he’d wondered whether she’d been right when she’d told him she wasn’t the needy type. But while he’d kept his distance, it hadn’t stopped him wanting her. He told himself he had no choice, that maybe they might still renege on signing the contract if he didn’t agree, but selfishly he knew that keeping his distance was killing him, and that a weekend in Sydney could be mutually beneficial. There was still more he could teach her, he told himself, if she wanted. ‘But I’ll have to get a suit. What are you wearing?’
She sucked air between her teeth. ‘That’s just it. I don’t have anything yet.’
He smiled at that, in spite of the anticipation growing in his loins. ‘Of course you don’t.’
‘I was planning on going into the Mount tomorrow and having a look.’
‘Into Mount Gambier?’ He swore under his breath in his mother’s tongue. He was doing a bit of that lately, but then he had good cause this time.
‘I heard there’s a sale on at Betty’s Drapery. I thought I’d check it out tomorrow.’
‘A sale. At Betty’s Drapery. You do realise this function is at the Opera House and that you may very well win and you will be going up on a podium to speak and you will be filmed and photographed a thousand times from a thousand different angles.’
He saw her blanch, watched her throat constrict as she swallowed. ‘This dress is going to have to be something extraordinary, and you think you’ll find it at Betty’s on a sale rack?’
She balled her fists, tears squeezing from her eyes. ‘I hate this. Why does everything have to be so complicated? I just want to grow my grapes and make my wine and now this has to happen and what am I going to do?’
‘Simple,’ he said. ‘Go to Betty’s if you must, and buy yourself something to wear on the plane that isn’t khaki, and then we’ll find you a decent dress in Sydney.’
He’d changed their flights to two days earlier to give them time to go shopping. And now she watched the changing view of the cliffs and coastline as their plane circled before landing in Sydney. Today the city was bathed in sunshine, the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House, iconic features of the beautiful harbour, standing proud.
She didn’t really think it could take two days to find one suit and a dress, but clearly she didn’t know a whole lot about shopping for major events and it was nice to let Franco take charge of this part of the
arrangements. She was nervous enough about Saturday as it was without worrying about anything else.
First would come the pre-dinner drinks, where the six finalists were all introduced to the guests and each had a few minutes to talk about their inspiration, their influences and their vision. Holly’s speech was a lot about Gus. She figured it was the only chance she’d get to speak and she wanted him to be recognised when he’d done so much to shape her into the winemaker she was, especially when he couldn’t be there in person.
Then on to the formal dinner before the announcement of the winner at nine after which they would thankfully go home and life would return to normal.
Or not quite normal in her case.
She wasn’t sure it would ever be normal again.
There was a car waiting for them outside arrivals. A red one, with bright red duco and gleaming chrome. She just looked at it and laughed. ‘A Maserati? You actually got a Maserati?’
‘What choice did I have? They were all out of helicopters.’
She smiled up at him as he held open the door for her. ‘I just hate it when that happens.’
Whoa, she thought as he manoeuvred the beast into the Sydney traffic. And not only because of the acceleration. But because for a moment there she’d felt a connection, a thread of shared experiences that made for a private joke.
An insanely expensive private joke.
‘Have you got a licence to drive this thing?’
‘Relax, I’m half Italian. It’s in the blood.’
Maybe it was, she thought as she breathed in air flavoured with the unfamiliar taste of the big smoke, and relaxed back in her seat. Right now she was here in Sydney with this gorgeous man in this audacious car and she was going to enjoy it.
She watched him as he relished being in control of this monster, putting on a burst of acceleration to squeeze into a gap in the next lane with apparent ease. She didn’t want to think about how much the insurance excess was on this baby, but he seemed totally relaxed. But then, he was made for driving a car like this, or maybe a car like this was designed to surround a man like him—European design, at its core wild and untamed, all wrapped up in a civilised—if very sexy—package.