The buzz and the sounds from the tasting room begin to drift away, while the echo of our steps bounce around the hall. As we descend down into the cellar, the temperature drops, and suddenly I’m wishing for a sweater and not this tiny dress.
Zach turns a knob, and the muted glow from the chandeliers brightens the room.
“I’m not sure if I told you this before, but it’s beautiful down here.” I trail my eyes over the photos that line one wall and show the history of the vineyard. There are several with Zach as a kid, he was good-looking then, too. I’m not surprised.
He chuckles and heads into a side alcove where large coolers are built into the wall to grab the brut.
“Thanks, although, I can’t take credit for it. My mother does all of the decorating around here.”
As he walks back toward me, my eyes drift down over the length of him, admiring the way his clothes are perfectly tailored to his body. His steps never falter, but his free hand curls into a fist—at my blatant perusal.
“Well, she did an amazing job.”
“Yeah, she did.” His voice is a little deeper, and inwardly, I smile at the effect my eyes are having on him.
When he gets close enough, he sets the bottle on the high-top table next to me and opens it, the hiss lingering in the air. Once again, he pours the perfect amount into the glass—a single crystal flute glass—before he hands it to me, and his fingers brush against mine. His eyes flare, and a thrill runs up my arm at the contact. Why do I love it so much when he touches me?
Pulling away, I bring the glass to my lips and pause. His eyes roam over my face, glance at my mouth, and then he breaks away, running his hand through his hair and around to his neck. The blue in his eyes is darker down here; I want them to be darker because of me.
The wine has effervescence and a lightness that wasn’t in the three upstairs. This wine is completely different, sensational, and in a league all on its own.
“Wow, this is incredible,” I say between sips.
He gives me a closed-mouth smile and nods his head. He knows it’s good.
Picking up the bottle, I look at the label and then him: Farkas, brut, blanc de blanc. It’s dry with no hint of sweetness, even though a touch of sugar is added, and it’s made entirely of white grapes.
“Farkas means ‘wolf’ in Hungarian,” he answers the question before I ask it.
“That’s your ancestor’s name?”
He nods his head. “When the wine industry took off again, my grandfather thought it would be better if we changed our name to a more recognizable one. My father agreed, so they filed the paperwork. This was about a year before he met my mother.
“So, this is fairly new change?” I drink a little more, and he tops off my glass.
“I guess you could say that.”
I look him over from head to toe, and he shifts his weight to lean against the table. “You don’t look like a Farkas.”
He chuckles. “Zachary Farkas?” He taps his chin for a few seconds as if he’s thinking about it. “Yeah, no.”
A laugh busts out of me, and he smiles in response.
“I like it when you laugh.” His dark eyes fall to my mouth. “I like it a lot,” he whispers.
My smile slips, and my breath catches as he steps closer. My head tilts back to look at him and every muscle freezes. We’re close enough to be touching, but we’re not, and my fingers tighten around my glass. He notices and gently lifts the glass away.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t blink.
All my back-and-forth indecision falls away, and now my reasons for staying away from him seem so insignificant. I know the difference between right and wrong, and what I should and shouldn’t do . . . but right here, right now in this moment, under his smoldering gaze, I don’t care.
Everything about this guy screams out to me: from the color of his hair and eyes, to the way he confidently carries himself, to his mind and how knowledgeable he is about the wine business—his business. The attraction I feel for him is so strong that the only thing I want to do is give in to it. Give in to him.
He needs to touch me, and he needs to touch me now.
Reaching a hand out, he lightly runs it down my arm until it lands on my hip. Warm fingertips sink through the fabric, squeeze me, and then push so I step backward and bump into the large table in the center of the room. Grabbing on to my waist, he picks me up and puts me on the table. The strap on my dress falls again, only this time instead of correcting it, he slips the other one off too and drags his warm fingertips across the skin of my chest.
“You are so beautiful,” he says, stepping between my legs.
A few pieces of his hair fall across his forehead, and slowly and gently, I brush them away and then trace the line of his face and down his jaw.
Dipping his head, his cheek rubs against mine as my hands slowly travel up his hard chest. Such a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips as he places them on my neck.
The warmth of his body, the clean earthy smell of his skin, I’m surrounded and drowning in that feeling that only comes from a man—this man. This man who now seems to be fighting the same battle I am.
Do we, or don’t we?
Pressing his hips into mine, he groans at the way we fit together, and I moan at the contact of him against me. My legs pull him closer, and I grab on to his waist as his hands slide in my hair, and fist so tightly I gasp.
Forcing my head back, he stares down at my lips. “God, you drive me insane with that mouth of yours, from the things you say to the way you drink my wines. Why do I find your lips wrapped around one of my wine glasses so incredibly sexy?”
My lips part and a slow breath leaves me.
He groans again, and I feel it against my chest. “All night . . . no, all week I’ve been infatuated with these,” he leans forward, bites my bottom lip and sucks it gently before letting it go. “And knowing what you taste like, it’s been driving me crazy.”
“Is this why you brought us down here?” My words are breathless and evident of desire.
His eyes find mine, blue eyes that are even darker than before, and there’s no hesitation. “Yes.” Closing the distance, his lips collide with mine.
Honey, warm honey, that’s what he tastes like as his tongue dances with mine—over and over, around and around.
Shutting off the questions and the confusion of our situation, I give in to all of my senses that are demanding I allow this to happen, and I let go. I throw myself into this kiss, his kiss, the hottest kiss I’ve ever been given.
His teeth clamp down just like the muscles in my stomach as they repeatedly bite and hold on, wanting to mark me. His warm, full lips elicit shivers as they drag across my cheek, under my ear, and down my neck. He wastes no time exploring me with his mouth, and all I can do is hold on for the ride.
Dragging his hands around my neck and to my chest, he pushes until I’m lying on the table in front of him with my legs wrapped around his hips. His eyes drink me in as want pours off him and he runs a hand down my chest between my breasts, over my stomach, and to my waist. I pull him closer with my legs, and he leans over me. He feels so good pressed into me that every pulse point in my body thumps hard with excitement.
His fingers on one hand sink back into my hair, and tilting my head he runs his tongue down my neck and across my chest to the edge of my dress. His blue eyes flash to mine once before his mouth returns to my skin, tasting it, devouring it, while his other hand moves up my thigh and dips under my dress to where I’m most anxious for it.
He pauses, hot air rushing out against my skin as his fingers wrap around and grasp my underwear.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper in his ear, teasing him and pleading at the same time.
I hear him inhale sharply, and the gaze I’m met with as he lifts his head and his eyes find mine, steals my next breath. That spark from earlier bursts into flames. The hottest part of the flame is blue, just like his eyes, the place of complete combustion. I
gasp at the heat he’s searing me with.
Challenge accepted.
He steps back, forcing me to unhook my ankles as one hand drags down my body feeling each curve, and the other pulls the small scrap of lace from under my dress and drops it onto the floor. Feeling an urgency to not waste any time, I sit up, unbuckle his belt, and make quick work of his pants. They slide down his legs as my thumbs dip inside his boxer briefs and drag them down his thighs to join his pants.
We both know where this is headed and we both want it. He moves back between my legs, hovers over me, and my heart speeds up. His hands cage in my head as he looks at me and I look at him. I see determination and drive. I see lust, pure unadulterated lust mixed with a little awe. I see him. A man who was my enemy and is now about to be my lover.
“Zach . . .” I whisper, sliding my hands up under his shirt wanting and needing to feel more.
“Shelby . . .” he whispers, huskily, and my hands tremble against him. With that his mouth slams down on mine, and I arch up to get as close as I can, giving him everything I have. His hand finds me as I find him and together we pause at the sensation of being touched by someone else. He tucks his head into my neck and groans as I run my hand up and down the length of him. He feels so hot compared to the air in this room, and I want this, I want him.
Gently, I pull and guide him until he removes his fingers and brushes against me.
“Pill?” he whispers as he drags his lips across my face and back to my lips.
“Yes.” It’s barely a breath as I exhale, but he catches it and kisses me for what feels like an eternity.
Resting his forehead against mine, his fingertips move to my hips and squeeze to almost the point of pain, to hold me in place and then he fully enters me in one move. The force of his hips, the fullness, the weight of his body all hit me at once, and I drown in the sensations.
Slowly, he pulls back out. My breath catches, and my body arches underneath him, chasing after his.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, moving his lips down my neck and to the swell of my breasts peeking out from under the edge of my dress.
“Yes.” A moan slips through my lips as he pushes back in, taking us both to a place of complete bliss. Wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, I want to close all the space between us and feel every inch of him—from head to toe.
He moves his hips into mine, alternating between hard and fast to slow and deep. Never have I completely given over all of me like I am to him in this moment. And I want it. I want it all. Anything and everything he can give me, I’m going to take it.
Threading my fingers through his hair, his lips work their way across my collarbone, back up my neck and to my mouth. His tongue explores every inch of my mouth and moves in time with his body. I am completely consumed by him and my legs start to shake.
Standing up, Zach’s hands run from my shoulders over my breasts and down my thighs. Pushing the skirt of my dress up higher, he watches as he moves in and out of me and repositions my legs so they aren’t around his back but tucked up under each arm.
Just seeing the way his hair falls across his forehead, the color high on his cheeks, his half-lidded eyes, and his swollen lips, sensations begin to prick down my spine. The sound of his labored breathing, the way his hips fit into mine, and the feeling of him losing his self-control has me climbing and climbing. The last week and a half, the attraction, the buildup, and the urgency to have one another carries me to the top of the cliff. Teetering on the edge, my eyelids slip shut as I mentally spread my arms wide, and together we welcome the free fall. Heart soaring, adrenaline racing, indescribable pleasure.
Panting, Zach falls forward and braces his forearms on the table on either side of my head before tucking his face into the crook of my neck. Sweat from his forehead makes my skin damp, and his lips part as he breathes heavily. Running my hand through his hair, I wait as he slowly relaxes his weight against me. I realize I could lie like this with him for an endless amount of time, but as our heartbeats slow, the coolness in the air descends. I shiver underneath him, and he stiffens as if he’s suddenly lying on a bed of nails instead of me.
Propping himself up with one hand, he stares down. Blue eyes are still dark. Only instead of the heated flame, they are stormy and cold as they travel all over my face, taking in detail after detail. In many ways, this direct stare feels more intimate than what we just did. He’s searching for something, I don’t know what, and I don’t think he does, either, but I don’t feel that tender connection that should come after a person so freely gives themselves to another. I feel agitation and affliction. Uneasiness slips in, and I close my eyes so he can’t see how he’s making me feel.
Vulnerable.
He slips from my hold and yanks his pants, which are still gathered around his ankles, up as I fix my dress. The walls he’s thrown up to close off his emotions make me feel self-conscious, and instead of basking in the afterglow and this new place we’ve found ourselves in, I feel foolish.
“Shit. What was I thinking?” His voice is low, monotone, and cool.
What?
Embarrassment. Humiliation. Horror. There isn’t a single word to describe how he just made me feel, all of them crash down on me.
I hop off the table and smooth down my dress. “You weren’t. Just like me.”
He flinches and his eyes jerk to mine. “I didn’t mean to say that aloud.” But yet he doesn’t apologize or retract it. Instead, he takes another step back, putting a distance between us that I thought had been removed.
I feel like this was a one-night stand with a stranger, and I don’t like it or understand it. We went from this incredibly intimate moment to him shutting me out. Staring at him, another unwanted feeling takes over and I feel used—something I swore I’d never let happen to me—but a larger part of me is confused. It takes two to make these moments happen, and I know I wasn’t in it alone.
Quietly, he watches me as he tucks his shirt back into his pants, zips, buttons them, and fastens his belt. Heat blooms against my chest and up my neck. I now know what’s under his clothes, how he tastes and moves, and it’s going to make this even harder for me. I know this isn’t going anywhere, but I allowed my heart to invest even when I knew better. So, watching his mood and words turn icy is crushing.
Tearing my eyes away from his belt, I find my underwear on the floor and grab them, fisting them into a tight ball in my hand. Zach runs his hand through his hair and lets out a deep breath before pinning me with his remorseful eyes.
“Shelby.”
“Don’t, Zach.” I put up a hand to stop him. I can’t handle it if he makes another passive comment like this shouldn’t have happened or this was a mistake. “It’s fine.” I mean, he did bring us down here. He admitted that he knew what was going to happen, or at least what I guess he was hoping would happen.
His brows pull low over his eyes as he regards me, and he tucks his hands into his pockets.
I never thought we were going to ride off into the sunset together, but I did think we’d moved past the split personalities. Just like that, he switched on me again, and my heart feels bruised. This reaction from him hurts, and my arms instinctively wrap around me. But then again, this is my fault. There’s a reason why I have my rules and instead of following them, I broke two of them. I mixed business with pleasure and opened my heart.
“Thanks for the tasting.” With that, I turn to head for the door before he sees through the mask of indifference I’ve put on.
“Shelby . . .” he says again, there’s concern in his voice, but I shake my head and force myself to walk calmly up the steps. Nothing good will come from whatever I forced him to leave unsaid.
White Peach Sangria
My feet pound a steady rhythm into the dirt keeping pace with not only the even in and out of my breaths, but the beat of my heart.
My heart.
In my chest and burning along with my muscles.
Running is my escape. My dad made me d
o it when I had too much energy built up, every coach made me do it to improve endurance and stamina, and now I make myself do it to stay in shape and relieve stress. It’s free therapy, only this time it isn’t working. Everything about this run was meant to clear my head and distract me from the mess I’ve found myself in, but it isn’t helping. My mind keeps rewinding itself like a home movie and replaying all of the moments we had together.
Pushing myself harder, I lean forward as I sprint up the hill on the western side of the farm. Sweat is pouring off of me, I’m dying for some water, and all I can think about is her: the sounds she makes as my teeth bite down on her bottom lip, her chest as she arches into me to get closer, her feet as they run down the backs of my thighs to push me harder and faster.
Damn it.
I knew we’d be good together, but I didn’t know we’d be that good.
Stopping in front of the manor, I bend over to catch my breath. The pulse of my blood is thundering through my body, and I hate that it might not be from the run but more because of her.
Her.
Shelby’s face as she jumped off the table flashes behind my eyes, and my heart constricts. I’m disgusted with myself that I was so consumed with my own struggles and how I felt in that moment that I hurt her. I closed off to decompress my thoughts, and she misread me. Girls are easy, and girls are fun. I always enjoy my time with them, but I’ve never hesitated like I did with her. But then again, I shouldn’t be surprised she evoked a different reaction from me, she always brings out the worst in me.
“Did it work?” Kyle startles me.
He’s leaning in the doorway of the side entrance with his arms folded across his chest.
“Did what work?” I shake out my legs while wiping the sweat off my face.
Kyle looks at me as if I’m stupid. “You’ve been running for about an hour and a half, you’ve looped the property three times, that’s twelve miles.”
Shit, I didn’t even realize. I was lost in my head and just kept running. Irritation leaks in—of course he’s keeping track of me and knows exactly how long I’ve been gone.
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 16