Autumn in the Vineyard shv-3

by Marina Adair

  “I can see that,” he chuckled and slid his hands under her butt. Frankie let out a sigh and cuddled closer into the yummy curve of his neck. Only instead of his pulling her to him, she felt gravity shift and heard his boots hit the deck.

  “Where are we going?” She looked up to find them standing. Well, Nate was standing, she was still twisted around him like a pretzel. A very spent pretzel.

  “Bed.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed.” Frankie felt panic well up. The reality of what she’d agreed to crashed in on her. Sure, she wanted to have sex with Nate. She even wanted to play the forever game for tonight. But bed-sex? She didn’t know if she could come back from that. “Why can’t we stay right here?”

  “Because I still haven’t gotten to door number three yet. And getting there out here would require some creative positioning. Positions that would no doubt lead to slivers in unwanted places since you’re practically sliding out of my arms.” He opened the front door and kicked it closed behind them.

  “I’m not sliding out of your arms,” she argued, having a really hard time getting a grip on his neck. “And I have to brush Mittens or his hair will knot and tangle. He gets angry if I forget.”

  “You promised me there was no alpaca behind that door. Now, lie back.” She did and realized that she was on a soft mattress. His soft mattress. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them. Immaculately made bed. Matching sheets and pillowcases. God awful pink chair. Yup. Definitely his bed. Crap. “And if in five minutes you still want to go brush the alpaca, then we can revisit this argument.”

  “Five minutes? Is that all you got?”

  “After today, that’s a generous estimation. I’m two and O, sweet cheeks. Meaning after two attempts I still haven’t gotten my O. So yeah, five minutes if we’re lucky.”

  “Fine,” she said, looking up into his amazing eyes. “Five minutes in that shag chair and I promise to up your average.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Nate rested his weight on his arms, the mattress sagging under him as he looked down at Frankie, watching every emotion she was feeling cross over her face. He wanted her for more than a single night. And he wanted to see all of her, not just what was under those shorts. Although he wanted that too. Bad. But one wrong move and he could mess this whole thing up, and that was not an option. Not when he was finally penetrating that wall she’d so skillfully built and maintained.

  His goal was to get so deep under her skin and into her heart that she wouldn’t wake up tomorrow regretting tonight. But he could tell that, for whatever reason, once they’d entered the bedroom she’d freaked. To the point that she was actually considering bolting out of here in nothing but those soft, and minuscule, shorts she thought passed for pajamas. So he pushed off the bed, straightened, and in one move tossed her over his shoulder. With a smack on that incredible ass, he ignored her squeak and walked to the chair.

  “What are you doing?” She smacked his butt so he smacked hers again then rubbed little circles on her thigh.

  “Getting my shag on,” he said, setting her in the chair and smiling when her boobs bounced. Yeah, he could get used to Frankie. Topless. In his chair. Her hair a tangle of curls hanging loose around her shoulders.

  She picked up a yellow legal pad that sat on the end table and grinned. “Color coded?” She flipped the page, then the next, her grin widening.

  “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Do you have a list for me?” Did he ever. Only that one wasn’t written down. It was meticulous, had sub-columns, and was dirty as hell. In fact, the majority of every night in this house had been spent adding, restructuring, and ranking that particular list. And his face must have shown it because she asked, “What’s at the top?”

  “Tonight?” He snagged the pad and tossed it on the bed. “You. Naked. Screaming out my name in that chair.”

  “Take this off,” she ordered, tugging at his shirt. “And let’s see what we can do about checking that off your list.”

  With a smile he pulled it over his head with one hand.

  “But about upping that average, I think you have some catching up to do first.” Frankie levered herself up so she sat on the edge of the seat. She reached for the buttons of his jeans and, zipper down, slid the Levis and briefs off his hips and to the floor. Her long legs parted to make room for him as she pulled him toward her.

  He managed to step out of his boots and pants while her palm wrapped around the length of him, her fingers cool and sure, gently stroking and caressing him from base to tip and back down. Watching her hands, he was fascinated how one minute they could looks so strong and the next elegant. When her mouth joined the party, fascination didn’t even begin to explain what he felt.

  “Oh, God, Frankie.” His fingers ended up in her hair, fisting tighter with each lick. Her hands were magic, and her mouth. God, that mouth. If he wanted this to last longer than two seconds, he couldn’t even go there. She sucked him in hard and his hips bucked, driving him deeper.

  “Any more of that and we won’t make it to door three.” He stepped back, and she released him.

  He took her elbow and helped her stand. Grabbing a condom from the bedside table, he sank into the chair and ran his hands all the way down her arms, to her hips, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of her shorts. He pulled her to him and placed an openmouthed kiss right on her center, applying just enough tongue to make her gasp. Burying his face against the soft cotton, he did it again, only this time her hips shifted forward, and he could taste her arousal on his lips.

  “More,” she moaned.

  People pleaser that he was, he tugged the hem of her shorts down, just below the V of her thighs and gave her more. Right up the middle. From the center to top in one swipe of the tongue. On the third pass he felt her stomach tremble and her legs began to give out.

  He peeled her shorts down to the floor, kissing her knee, thigh, stomach, before pulling her onto his lap and kissing her lips.

  Frankie straddled him and sank down, her wet, hot skin settling over his tip. She took the condom off the table and, after a whole lot of stroking and teasing, slid it home. Then with a smile, that if he were being honest scared him as much as it turned him on, she reached down and pulled the chair’s lever.

  The seat tilted back. Frankie tilted forward, her hands braced on either side of his head, and, Jesus, those incredible breasts were situated right in his face.

  “Whoever invented this chair deserves an award,” he said, because all he had to do was lean up and—oh, yeah. She smelled like wine, bold and spicy, and tasted even better. And she was definitely a D.

  Nate had never considered himself a breast man—he usually went for legs, which Frankie had in spades—but there was something about her breasts, something that he hoped to spend days figuring out.

  Frankie, however, had other plans, because she arched her back and sank down, and slowly pushed until he was all the way inside of her. They both stopped breathing, stopped moving, and for a second took in the moment. Then Frankie started moving.

  She rose up only to sink deliciously back down, taking even more of him. Her hips moved faster, harder, and breathing seemed to piss off his chest so he gave up on it. She let out a low throaty moan and closed her eyes and all Nate could do was watch her. The way her hair tumbled around her shoulders, her mouth parted as she let loose sweet little moans of pleasure, how she was two seconds away from exploding in his arms.

  She was so damn beautiful.

  “I’m going to,” she gasped. “I need to…”

  “Me too.”

  Nate gripped her hips, and rose up, moving faster and deeper. He wanted to make this last, but then her thighs started squeezing his, and she started making these noises that drove him out of his fucking mind, and he started thrusting harder.

  The pressure built, but he held himself in check, barely, determined for her to go over first. He slid his hand between their bodies, rubbing his thumb back and forth over where they
were joined. He felt her stiffen, take in a breath and hold it.

  “Come on, Francesca, let go.”

  And thank God she did. She arched back, pushed down as he was coming up and her breath exploded from her lungs. Her walls clenched around him, nearly strangling his dick until it throbbed and Nate gave one final thrust and felt all the blood rush south. Then everything went black and he collapsed against the chair, while Frankie collapsed against him.

  After he was able to breathe without gasping, he grabbed a tissue from the side table and cleaned up. Placing a kiss to the top of her head, he whispered into her hair, “That was incredible. You were incredible.”

  Her face was pillowed into his chest and all he could hear was the steady rhythm of her breathing. He ran a hand down her back to cup her butt and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Frankie?”

  Her answer was to burrow further into his chest and let out a soft, sleepy sigh. Nate gave a sigh of his own, grabbed the matching afghan off the back of the chair and, pulling her tightly to him, covered them.

  After a while his legs started to go numb and his cheeks began to hurt. He was grinning. He knew it and yet he couldn’t stop. Then Frankie shifted, her lean arms sliding around his middle and he decided he didn’t care.

  * * *

  A pounding came from right outside Frankie’s window followed by pounding in her head. She cracked open her eyes and winced; the sun was barely peeking through her window, yet managed to pierce her right through the retina. She rolled over and—

  “Holy poppycock,” she groaned, grabbing her forehead. But it didn’t help. Her mouth felt as though she’d spent the evening grooming Mittens—with her tongue—and pain pushed through the top of her head right down to her toes, making the pink shag chair even more nauseating than ever.

  Shag chair?

  Her hands did a quick morning-after pat down and—yup. She was alone, in Nate’s bed, totally naked.

  She struggled to piece together last night. She had only managed to get to the part where Nate found her on the porch having a pity party for one, which turned into a sex party for two, which led to the shag chair, and somehow bed—his bed, which explained the allergic reaction she was currently experiencing—when another crash shot through the air.

  This time it vibrated the entire house and was followed by a pissed off bleating and several hostile warks.

  “No, Mittens!” In one motion Frankie was on her feet and headed for the front door. She grabbed a clean top and bottoms—both neatly folded in the basket on her bed—and slipped into her boots on the way. According to the clock it was nearly ten, which meant Mittens would be hungry. “Not this time.”

  Images of horse teeth chewing through the side of the new tank flashed as she raced down the hall, past the now re-organized pantry, snagging a box of Pop Tarts, and out the front door.

  “Don’t do it, Mittens,” she hollered, but not angrily. Because it wasn’t the alpaca’s fault that he was forced to dine on plastic and vinyl for breakfast. He was a nervous eater, Frankie knew that, and yet last night she had kind of yelled at him for nibbling at her new lemon tree and then, in her hormone induced haze, forgot to brush him before bed, something that had become kind of a ritual. “I’ve got your breakfast.”

  But as Frankie stood there, on the porch, waiving the foil wrapped toaster pastry as though it were her kid’s lunchbox, she realized that Mittens wasn’t anywhere near the tank. Nope, her shy alpaca was nickering and prancing behind Nate, who stood by a semi that held the enormous water tank, although at fifty-thousand gallons it was more of a tower.

  Nate turned around to look at her and, one hand on his hip while the other slid Mittens a carrot top, gave Frankie an amused grin. A ball cap was pulled low on his head, shading his eyes and the lower half of his face. Instead of his usual polo, khakis, and loafers, he wore a grey t-shirt and a pair of loose cargo shorts that hung from his lean hips. Sweet Jesus, the man was dirty, sweaty, and looked like your basic, sexy-grape-grower for hire.

  “Morning, sweet cheeks,” he drawled as he walked toward her, his stride slow and easy.

  She wasn’t sure if it was the casual clothes or the dirt under his nails or seeing him in his element yesterday and nothing but shag last night, but Nate, like this, all manly and undone, was a sight to behold.

  He stopped at the bottom of the front stoop and, flipping the bill of his cap backward, his heated brown eyes traveled from her face to her mouth and down her chest where it hung for a long, intense moment. His gaze felt like a gentle caress of sheer male appreciation, skimming over her hips and down her legs, making her heart flutter a little—and leaving her feeling ridiculously feminine.

  “You look like—”

  “Shit?” Frankie said with a self-conscious laugh. Hating how hard it was to breathe. She didn’t do feminine and she didn’t do morning afters for a reason. She sucked at both of them.

  He walked up the steps, not bothering to stop until he was all in her space. Sweaty from shoveling dirt, he looked so big and imposing and so—manly. Nate DeLuca, uptight, loafer owner, looked manly. God, he even smelled manly.

  “I was going to say, half asleep. You can barely hold your eyes open.” He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear and she forgot how to breathe all together. “Long night?”

  Feeling way too dainty and too vulnerable, she batted his hand away and leveled him with her most intimidating glare. Only he didn’t look intimidated, or leveled. The jerk actually smiled. It was a slow, sexy tilting of the lips that had her nipples breaking out the party poppers. Nate noticed.

  “Who says I’m tired?”

  “Honey, you’re standing on the front porch in nothing but an epic case of bedhead, my shirt, lace and—” He looked down and, party poppers in full effect, there went that smile and—when he looked up at her through his eyebrows—that annoying fluttering. “There is a crew of about ten guys who are all silently hoping you’ll notice you forgot to tie your boots and bend over, making it a great morning.”

  Palms flat against his chest, she rolled up on her tiptoes, looked over his shoulder and—yup, a construction crew of ten, including Hard Hammer Tanner, stood silently watching. Smiling. A few of the guys tipped their hats in greeting. Tanner raised a hand and waved as though a half-naked client welcoming his crew was a normal occurrence in his line of work.

  Frankie waved back. “Yeah, well I don’t care.”

  Which was a lie. She totally cared, but he was making her feel all protected and girly and all she could think about was how she had slept in his bed. With him. All night. Hell, she’d almost cried in front of him. Talk about embarrassing.

  Nate stepped closer, so close that she could smell his crisp, clean, sexy scent. It was a lethal combination. He molded his hands in the curve of her waist, his body crowding hers until she could feel his heat seep through the thin cotton of her, whoops, his shirt.

  “Well, I do,” he grumbled, his hands warm and possessive on her body as he backed her through the door.

  Once inside, he kicked the door closed with his foot, but his hands never left her hips. And his eyes, serious and intense and heavy with lust, never left hers.

  “Oh,” she whispered. And there went that heavy feeling in her chest again.

  “And I know what you’re doing,” he whispered back. But his whisper came out a smooth rumble. “It won’t work.”

  “What am I doing?” Really, she wanted to know. Because whatever it was, it was driving him crazy. And she kind of liked it.

  “This whole prickly, nothing gets to me thing you’ve got going on doesn’t fool me, Francesca.” She loved it when he called her that. “Not anymore. So you can be upset about last night, mad that your brothers are jerks, mad that your grandpa left early, mad that you’ve worked your ass off and no one in your family even noticed. But,” his hands slid around to the small of her back—then lower, “don’t be mad that I saw you last night, the real you, okay?”

  Frankie didn’t know what
to say. She was upset, but not for the reasons Nate listed. Okay, so maybe she was a little disappointed that her brother Adam, executable excuse or not, flaked and that her grandpa was proving to be every bit the jackass that Nate accused him of being. But if she were being honest, it wasn’t anger that had her heart pounding, it was fear.

  She was scared. Because, although they hadn’t had bed-sex, she felt all connected and weird around him now. Like he knew things about her that he could use against her. And when he looked at her, how he was now, all understanding and patience, something soft and vulnerable and totally off limits started swirling in her chest.

  Bed-sex with an expiration date before sunrise would have been better, safer, she thought.

  Then she woke up. In his bed. Alone, but in his bed all the same, which meant that he’d put her there—that he cared. And her knowing that Nate cared, that he had seen the real her last night and that he hadn’t run screaming made her stomach pinch painfully. Because he would run eventually, and the longer he stayed around the harder it would hurt when he did.

  He must have taken her long silence as agreement because his smile slid higher, while his palm slid lower, right over her silk panties to cup her bottom. His thumbs, however, teased up under the lacy edges, gently exploring. The warmth of his skin on hers sent tiny tingles scurrying everywhere, making the tingles in her heart less noticeable.

  “Now, you’ve got about ten minutes before Tanner kills the water. So why don’t you go shower off and get dressed because the longer I stand here,” he pressed a quick kiss to her mouth, “smelling me on you, the less likely I am to let you take that shower alone. And then you and I will wind up naked and skip going out.”

  Out? She didn’t want to go out, she wanted to stay in. With Nate. Having wild monkey-sex all day. On the couch. To remind herself that she can have fun and manage to stay unattached.

  “Why don’t you join me?” she whispered, her hands doing some exploring of their own. Down his impressive chest, over each muscle of his six-pack. This she could do. Lust, shower sex, things that didn’t involve talking and feelings. Or the bed.