by HELEN HARDT
She stands and shimmies out of them, taking her white bikini panties with them. Then she sits back down on the bed where I planted her in the first place.
Her beauty beguiles me. Those sweet tits that fit in my palm so perfectly, her pink nipples already erect. Her concave abdomen, and then her pussy. Bare tonight. Bare and beautiful and hiding the gems I’ve grown dependent on.
“Are you going to get undressed?” she asks, her voice slightly timid.
I narrow my eyes. My cock is so hard I could slice a brick with it. “Quiet,” I say more harshly than I mean to.
Ashley is flushed all over. She’s responding to my harshness.
Which makes me even harder, if that’s possible.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, determined to make her squirm the way she made me squirm.
One button.
Two.
Three.
I pull it out of my waistband.
Four buttons.
Five.
She sucks in an audible breath and opens her mouth.
I gesture her to be quiet as I finish the shirt, slide it slowly over my shoulders, and let it fall to the floor.
My boots are next. I’ve been wearing cowboy boots for twenty-five years, and I know how to get out of them quickly.
Then my jeans. God, they’re uncomfortable. So much for the slow burn. I shed them rapidly and free my aching dick.
Ashley sucks in another breath. Fuck, she’s beautiful, that warm rosy glow, those sparkling azure eyes, the ashy blond hair falling over her milky shoulders…
I don’t want to wait.
One day maybe I’ll be able to take her slowly, as I’ve dreamed of.
But not this day.
Not this moment.
No gentle love tonight.
I lunge toward her, claiming her lips as I shove my cock into her heat.
She’s ready for me. Always so ready. Sweet and silky and wet in the most luscious of ways.
She gloves me, and I sink into her perfection. Her paradise.
And I know, in my heart of hearts, that I’ll never find anyone who feels like Ashley White.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ashley
His sandy chest hair abrades my hard nipples as he pumps into me. If it’s possible, he’s even harder than normal, larger than normal.
He fills every empty spot inside me, and as he pumps, his pubic bone torments my clit, and I race toward the top of the mountain.
I cry out as I come, and then I come again.
Dale is fucking me harder than he ever has before. It’s an angry fuck. A tormented fuck. A lusty and exuberant fuck.
All those feelings…
All those colors…
It’s the dark red of Syrah, but kaleidoscoping around the main color are emerald green, bright red, and black.
A translucent veil of black.
Dale.
All the colors of Dale in this one amazing meeting of our bodies.
I come again, and then again, my body responding to him in a way it never has before.
“Damn, Ashley,” he rasps. “Damn it all to hell!”
His words taunt me. He’s still angry. Angry and passionate and full of lust.
It’s always been this way with him, but another layer has formed.
Love.
Dale’s love.
And mine.
My climax has transcended to another level. Another whole plane, where only Dale and I exist. The two of us—our bodies, hearts, and souls morphed together into one. One ultimate being made of love and light.
And darkness.
Always the darkness with Dale.
I embrace it. I embrace all that is the man I love.
And with the next climax, I soar even higher.
“Fuck, Ashley,” he says again. “Fuck it. I love you!” He slams into me just as I break into one last orgasm.
Together we soar across the sky, lighter than air.
“I love you too,” I cry. “I love you so much!”
Our love floats around us, the color of soft pink. It covers everything else—the burgundy, the green, the red, and the black.
For one single moment, the blush of our love takes over.
I meet Dale’s gaze. Strands of blond hair stick to his forehead and cheeks with perspiration. I push one back over his forehead and then trail my fingers over his strong jawline.
His lips are parted, and they tremble a bit. Only a bit.
“I love you,” I say softly.
He closes his eyes and inhales, as if he’s savoring my words. Then he opens them, and his eyes are green fire. “I love you too. God help me, but I do. I love you so damned much.”
He rolls off me and then onto his back, his legs dangling off the side of the bed. He stares at the ceiling, his lips still parted.
I snuggle up next to him and breathe in the scent of him mingled with the musky fragrance of our lovemaking.
“Will you be here in the morning?” I can’t help asking.
“Yes,” he says. “I promised you two months. I’ll give you two months.”
I sigh and kiss his shoulder. It’s not what I ultimately want, but it’s something. It’s more than he was willing to offer even yesterday.
I’ll take it, I say to myself.
And even as I drift off to sleep, I try not to think about how difficult it will be to leave him in November. Already I feel as though I’ve lost a piece of my heart.
My phone buzzes at six a.m.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. Then I remember. I’m in Dale’s bed. At Dale’s place. And…
“Damn it!” I say out loud.
I’m alone in this big bed once more.
Anger rushes through me. But no time for that. I scurry into my clothes. I have to get back to the main house and get ready for work.
I should have known better than to trust Dale Steel.
Was he lying when he said he loved me as well?
I stomp out the door of his bedroom and down the hallway. I’m breathing hard, the rage pumping through me. Then I smell…
Bacon? Eggs? I turn into the kitchen, and—
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Dale’s dreamy Syrah-laced drawl wraps me in warmth. He’s standing at the cooktop, bare-chested and glorious, wearing only lounge pants. My breath catches at his gorgeousness.
“You’re here,” I can’t help saying.
“Where else would I be?”
Myriad answers to his question exist, but I exercise control over my snark. He promised me he’d be here, and he is. Not only that, he’s making breakfast.
“I poured your juice.” He nods to the table.
Sure enough, a tall glass of OJ awaits me. “Thank you.” I pick it up and take a sip.
“Not fresh squeezed,” he says. “We don’t get a lot of fresh oranges here in the fall. Sorry.”
“It’s delicious.”
“Getting used to concentrate?” he asks.
“Contrary to your apparent belief, I drink a lot of concentrate at home. It’s cheaper.”
“You don’t juice your own?”
I take another sip. “Don’t own a juicer.”
He turns toward me, his eyebrows raised. “Really? A Cali girl like you?”
“I’m not a vegetarian, either, as you’ve probably noticed. And clearly I have no problem poisoning myself with alcohol.”
He smiles a little at that one. “You probably know all the health benefits of wine.”
I nod. “I live by them.”
He turns back to the cooktop. “How do you like your eggs?”
“However you like them is fine. I’m not picky.”
He looks over his shoulder. “I want to know how you like them, Ashley. I want to make them for you.”
I smile. Who are you and what have you done with Dale Steel? I say only, “That’s sweet of you. Scrambled, please.”
“You got it.”
A few minutes later, a plate of eggs, bacon, an
d whole wheat toast slides in front of me.
“Thank you.”
“Just wait.” He gestures to a mason jar. “Try some of that on your toast.”
“What is it?”
“Try it and see.” He pushes the jar toward me.
The color is a lovely smoky orange. I spread some of the jam on my toast and take a bite.
“Oh my God!” I say with my mouth full. Lively peach scatters over my tastebuds, followed by cinnamon, cloves, and something I can’t quite identify. I let it sit for a moment, tasting the jam as if I were tasting wine. It’s pepper. Subtle pepper. Maybe white pepper?
“I take it you approve?” Dale says.
I chew my toast and swallow. “That’s delicious. Did you make it?”
“Not guilty,” he says. “That’s Aunt Marj’s creation. Her spiced peach preserves from last season. She hasn’t made this year’s batch yet.”
“I doubt she can improve on this.” I take another bite and swallow more quickly this time. “Is that really white pepper I’m tasting?”
“It’s crushed pink peppercorns, actually,” he says. “The flavor is similar, but they aren’t actually true peppercorns. They’re berries from the Brazilian pepper tree. The taste is lighter.”
“Pink pepper, huh? Is there anything you don’t know about spices and cooking?”
“Not a lot. The pink is a more subtle flavor that doesn’t overwhelm the peaches and other spices. It just adds a light zing.”
I can’t help a laugh. “Zing? What’s that mean, Mr. Don’t-Be-Subjective?”
“It means a sharply piquant flavor,” he deadpans.
I shake my head, still chuckling. “I’ll never win with you, will I?”
Dale doesn’t reply. He says simply, “Just enjoy your breakfast, Ashley. We have a big day today at work.”
I slather more jam on my toast as I realize I haven’t even touched my bacon and eggs. The eggs look perfectly scrambled, too, just the way I like them. I have to eat them. He made them especially for me.
“Oh?” I bring a forkful of eggs to my mouth.
Light and fluffy and perfect with a touch of butter, just as I knew they’d be. I can’t help a satisfied, “Mmm.”
“You approve?” he says.
“Wow. Yes. Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.” I’m not even embellishing.
“Good. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “We’re beginning the harvest of the Syrah today. I figured you’d want to be involved.”
“Your vines,” I say softly.
“Yes.” He looks down at his plate.
“I imagine you like to be there. To…”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. Protect your vines?”
He smiles slightly. Just the thought of his vines makes him happy. “Sort of. They’re vines. They’re part of our business. They have to be harvested. Harvest is my favorite time of the year, honestly. But…”
“But those vines are special.”
He nods. “Yes, more special this year because we’re producing our first old-vine Syrah.”
“Right. You told me.”
“I need to make sure none of the fruit is harmed.”
“But your harvesters know what they’re doing,” I say. “I’ve been with them the last few days.”
“They do.” He offers no further explanation.
He doesn’t have to.
The Syrah vines are special to him. More than special.
He’s part of them.
He loves them.
And I wonder—only for an instant—if he loves them more than he loves me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dale
I both love and hate Syrah harvest.
Ashley won’t understand, and I don’t expect her to. Harvest, when we capture our bounty. This year’s Syrah is so beautiful, so perfect. And while I want to take the fruit from the vines—want to make those beautiful grapes into magnificent wine—still I resist inside.
But it’s the circle of life, as it is with any living thing. Because those particular vines are my sanctuary doesn’t change that.
I just like to be there. Exist next to those vines as their fruit is taken from them.
Watch over them, in a way, like they watch over me the rest of the season.
Until winter, when they’re dormant. I still sleep with them, but it’s different. They’re alive but hibernating.
Winter is hard for me.
I push the thought aside.
Winter isn’t here yet. This is autumn. Harvest time. And Ashley.
Two more months of Ashley before I fade into the cold cloak of winter.
She takes the last bite of bacon, rises, and takes her empty plate to the sink. “I have to stop eating like this. I’m going to gain a ton while I’m here.”
Her body is perfect, and honestly, if she gained weight? She’d still be perfect to me. I fell in love with her, not with her body. With her vibrancy. Her exuberance. Her light. A few pounds won’t change those fundamental things about her.
I think about how to respond to her, when my phone buzzes. Hmm. I don’t recognize the number. I excuse myself and take the phone into my office.
“Dale Steel.”
“Mr. Steel, this is Dr. Montgomery from Woodrow Rehab Center in Grand Junction.”
Is that where Floyd is? I never asked Dad. “Yes, good morning.”
“I’m your father’s physician.”
Not my father, but whatever. “Yes, what can I help you with?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s had a myocardial infarction.”
“A heart attack?” Why doctors can’t just speak English is beyond me.
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“He was transported by ambulance to St. Mary’s. I’m sorry, but that’s all I know right now.”
On the first day of Syrah harvest? Really, Floyd? “I’ll contact the hospital,” I say to the doctor. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“You’re welcome. We’ll hope for the best.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.” I end the call.
Now what? I have to deal with the dumbass who fathered me after I just told Ashley we have a big day. Only one person can help me. Dad.
I return to the kitchen, where Ashley is loading the dishwasher. Her ass looks delectable in those jeans…
But no.
So much else is going on now.
I owe Floyd Jolly nothing. Not a damned thing. But his doctor called me, which means Floyd put me down as an emergency contact. Not my father. Not my brother. Not anyone else.
Me.
His firstborn.
He may be dead already, for all I know. But if he isn’t? Can I let him die alone?
“Ashley…”
She turns to face me. “Yeah?”
What am I supposed to say to her? She knows nothing of my birth father, that he showed up a few weeks ago. A big part of me doesn’t want to pour out the story now.
But another part of me does want to.
I’m already hiding so much from her—so much that I’ll never be able to reveal.
Can I reveal this tiny bit?
It’s not a secret, really. Mom and Dad know. All the aunts and uncles know. Probably all the cousins. Dee may have already told Ashley, for all I know.
“Have you talked to Diana lately?” I ask.
“Just yesterday, actually,” Ashley says. “She loves her boss and all her coworkers. They’re letting her take the lead on one of the committees.”
“Good. That’s good.” I clear my throat. “Did she tell you anything else? I mean…about me?”
“No. Why would she?”
“You want some more juice?” I ask, heading to the coffeemaker for a fresh cup.
“I’m fine. I need to get back to the house to shower and change.”
I nod, taking a sip of my coffee and pulling out a chair for her. “Sit.”
Her eyes widen, and not in a good way.
She inhales and then exhales slowly. “Give it to me straight.”
Yup, that’s what she thinks. “I’m not breaking up with you.”
She drops her mouth open, a squeak escaping. “You’re not?”
“No, Ashley, I’m not.”
She sighs, visibly relieved. “What’s up, then?”
“I have to go to Grand Junction today.”
“So you won’t be going to the harvest?”
“No. Not today, anyway. I’ll be there tomorrow.” God willing.
“Okay. What do you want me to do, then?”
“You can work the harvest if you’d like, or I can have you shadow Uncle Ry or one of his associates. Uncle Ry stopped working the harvest last year when he decided to retire after this season. He might be tasting the barrels. He does that once a week. You’d like that.”
“I would,” she says, “but I’d rather be with you. What’s going on in Grand Junction?”
“I’m not going there on business.”
“Oh.” She looks down at the table.
“So you can’t go along,” I say, “but…I want to tell you why I’m going.”
She looks up and meets my gaze. “Okay. I appreciate that.”
“My…uh…birth father showed up a little while ago.”
Her eyebrows rise, but only a touch.
“That’s why I went to Grand Junction. To meet him, and to have a DNA test.”
“And…?”
“He’s legit. Well, he’s my father.” Legit is another question altogether. “Anyway, he had a heart attack early this morning.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Dale.”
“I’m okay. I don’t have any feelings for him. He’s blood, but he’s not family.”
She nods.
“But I’m his emergency contact, obviously, so I need to go see to his affairs, if there are any.”
“Did he…die?”
“I don’t know yet. He was transferred to the hospital. That’s all I know.”
“You need to call the hospital.”
“I will. I wanted to tell you first.”
My words surprise even me. Not that I have any feelings for my birth father, but telling Ashley something about myself—no big secret, but more than I’ve ever even thought about telling her before now—took precedence.
