by M. Leighton
“Yes, sir,” Cher says, still grappling with her composure. She blinks several times when she looks down, as though she’s stared too long at the sun and is trying to rid her vision of the residual bright spots. “I, uh, we can certainly take care of whatever needs you might have. We are full service and offer twenty-four-hour coverage if you’d have a need of—”
“I don’t think we’re in that bad a shape. I think day and evening coverage should suffice, don’t you, Weatherly?”
Is that laughter I see in his eyes? Does he find my discombobulation amusing?
“I agree. I think we can make do with someone in the mornings and again in the late afternoon to prepare dinner and such.”
Cher nods. “We’re happy to provide that. I just have a few details I’ll need and then I have some paperwork for you to look over.”
“Of course, I—”
The bang of a car door out front has me stiffening all over again. That has to be my father.
Tag, ever observant, notices immediately. “Go,” he says, tipping his head toward the foyer. “I’ll take care of this. You can make a list of what you want for tomorrow. Cher and I can take care of today.”
I’m torn. I need to go greet my father, but I want to stay and work out the details with Cher. The last thing I need is for the household to appear to be falling apart because of Tag’s sick mother. My father is already going to be very unhappy about this situation. The last thing I need to do is give him a reason to toss them all out the door.
I have to admit to wanting to hang around in here because of Cher’s overly bright smile, too. As Tag explains what he’d like prepared for lunch and dinner (which actually sounds quite delicious), Cher watches him with stars in her eyes. She keeps taking deep breaths, which only draws attention to the ample chest straining against the linen of her shirt.
I curse the stab of jealousy as I make my way out of the kitchen and into the foyer to greet my father. I stop just before I step out into his line of sight and take a cleansing, calming breath, reminding myself that I’m a grown woman and this is my fate we’re dealing with, too.
I feel more prepared to face William O’Neal after my ten-second pep talk. My smile is perfectly polite and unruffled when I step out into the foyer. “Hi, Dad,” I say, catching my father just as he steps through the door.
“Weatherly, Weatherly,” he says, shaking his head, his tone rife with disappointment.
He has no idea just how disappointed he’s going to be on this trip, I think to myself as I give him my cheek.
Let the games begin.
TWELVE
Tag
Cher is interested. Very interested. I can see it in the way she licks her pouty lips so often. I can see it in the way she sat up a little straighter, just enough to emphasize her plump tits, when Weatherly left the room. I can see it in the way she smiles at almost everything I say. She’s being professional for the most part, but if we were meeting under different circumstances, I seriously doubt she’d be this discreet. I’ve known a hell of a lot of women like her. At this point, I can pick them out of a crowd. And while on any other day I’d probably make some arrangements to meet up with her later—or, hell, even take a little detour to the broom closet as I show her around the house—the only thing on my mind right now is Weatherly. With her in my head, I find it hard to really notice anyone else.
She’s out there by herself trying to deal with her father. I’ve thrown a twist into the already-complicated relationship they obviously have. When he finds out about me, she’s going to have an even bigger mess to clean up with him. He’ll think I’m all wrong for her. She probably thinks so, too. Deep down, anyway. The problem is they’re wrong about the things that make me inadequate for her in their eyes. They have no idea about the real reasons I’m wrong for her.
THIRTEEN
Weatherly
I haven’t had a chance to speak to Dad privately since he got here. Our ten-second run-in standing in the foyer was quickly interrupted by Tag touring Cher through the house. He winked at me as he passed, and nodded to my father, but otherwise, he didn’t pause in his chatter with the redhead.
“Who is that?” my father asked.
“Tag. You’ve met him before.”
“Not Tag. I know Tag, for chrissake. The redhead. Who is that?”
“We are hiring a service to take care of the cooking and the housekeeping while you and Michael are here. Stella isn’t well. She doesn’t need to be tending to us right now.”
At least my father had the good grace to appear worried and to express some concern. “Isn’t well? What’s the matter? It’s nothing serious, I hope.”
I went into a very brief explanation of her condition, to which he merely nodded and agreed that hiring out her duties was best. Before I could ask for a word in private, Michael had descended the stairs and, from that moment on, my time has been completely monopolized.
My father’s desire to matchmake is at the root of it, no doubt. He probably suggested that he and Michael come up here so that we could get to know each other better in a more relaxed setting. And when Dad gets something in his head, it’s nearly impossible to change his mind or alter his course. He’s like a dog with a bone.
His first suggestion was that he take Michael on a tour of the buildings on the grounds. I was more than happy to let them have at it, but my father insisted that I go, too, citing my childhood love of Chiara and Michael appreciating my “enthusiasm.” Politeness is too deeply ingrained in me to do anything more than simply smile and graciously agree, so that’s what I did. No reason to make this any more uncomfortable and disagreeable than it already is. Or is likely going to get, once my father finds out about Tag.
We returned to find lunch set up on the east veranda. I wondered what Tag was up to, because I haven’t seen a glimpse of him since he came through with Cher right after Dad arrived. I didn’t have time to look for him, though, because my father called for the Jeep right after we ate. I thought maybe I’d see Tag when he brought it around, but it was just sitting at the top of the driveway, empty, with the keys in the ignition.
I sat in the back for the Jeep tour of the vineyard, enjoying the breeze coming through the open rear windows. It was when we passed the merlot field that the ache began.
As though I was experiencing it all over again, I could close my eyes and remember with perfect clarity every kiss, every touch, every word that transpired between Tag and me last night. He was right—I’ll never look at those grapes the same way again.
Thankfully, the tour is over. I quickly excused myself to shower before dinner and took a moment to search the house for Tag. Again, he was nowhere to be found. Not even Stella, resting in her rooms at the caretaker’s cabin, knew where he might be.
I stare at the bed as I strip off my clothes. My skin is sensitive. Tender, almost. And the ache that I’ve carried since the fields deepens to a need that throbs and pulses all the way through me. I moan softly at the pleasure/pain of thinking about Tag, of his hands and his mouth on me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don’t bother with gathering clothes. I just head for the bathroom, hoping that a cool shower might ease my discomfort.
I turn on the spray and step in immediately, gasping at the shock of the cold water on my heated skin. I had an allergic reaction to antibiotics once when I was a little girl and this is what my skin felt like—as though even the air was too much stimulation. Only this, this is centered around my core. Every drop of water, every run of liquid down my body causes a reactive squeeze between my legs, a plea for release.
I grab the soap and roll it in my hands, determined to ease the discomfort any way that I can. I can’t go through the evening this way. I’ll just have to take care of things myself and hope that fixes me.
I barely hear the soft click of the shower door open and close. It isn’t un
til I feel Tag’s hands at my heavy breasts that I cry out. I’m surprised, yes, but the feel of him touching me, when I need it so, so badly, is enough to reduce me to a writhing mess in his arms.
He is pressed snugly to my back, his face tucked into the curve of my neck and his arms wrapped around me from behind. He rubs and tweaks and teases my nipples until I’m grinding my butt into the unforgiving granite of his erection.
“You missed me today, didn’t you?” he whispers, nipping at my earlobe with his teeth. Even that seemingly innocuous action sends a bolt of electricity shooting to my sex. “Did you think about me when you rode through the fields? Did you ache from having me inside you so much last night?”
I nod, my mouth hanging open as I take in gulps of air and try not to bring the house down with all the sounds that are bubbling up in my chest.
One of Tag’s hands slides down my wet stomach, pushing between my folds to slip a finger into me. “Were you thinking about having me here? About having my cock in you, stretching you tight?”
He thrusts his finger deep inside me, the pad of his thumb rubbing my clit with the action. Reflexively, my body ripples around him. My knees nearly buckle, I’m so close to orgasm.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” he murmurs, crooking his finger inside me and slowly dragging it out. “I think I have just the thing for you.”
I don’t ask what he means. Honestly, I don’t care as long as he doesn’t stop touching me. Today has been torture without him, the memories of his touch enough to drive me mad with desire. I’ve never needed someone’s touch this way. But I need Tag. I need to feel him inside me. I need to feel him wrapped around me. I just need Tag.
Gently, Tag turns me to face him. He bends down in front of me and hooks his arms through and around the backs of my thighs. I gasp when he pulls me off my feet. I feel like I’m going to fall backward; I wasn’t prepared for him to pick me up. But I don’t fall. Tag turns as he stands and presses my back into the cool shower wall, pinning me there with my legs wrapped around his head.
I don’t have time to question what he’s doing, because the moment I feel his tongue spear into my crease and circle my clit, my climax rolls through me like thunder. All I can do is hold on, my fingers fisting rhythmically in Tag’s silky black hair. He works his mouth over me, his tongue, his teeth, prolonging my orgasm until I’m breathless and the room is spinning every time I open my eyes.
Before the spasms have subsided, Tag pulls my wet back down the wet wall, readjusting me in his grip until my legs are wrapped around his waist and his face is mere inches from mine.
“I hope you saved some for me,” he says softly just before he takes my mouth and slams his cock into me.
He swallows the loud moan that escapes my throat upon his penetration. Never has anything felt so good as Tag buried so deeply inside me. There is only a flash of discomfort as I still stretch to accommodate him, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving only intense pleasure behind.
My body wrings his length with his every thrust, and with every thrust he triggers more wringing. It’s an endless cycle of orgasmic delight that ends with Tag’s desperate whispers in my ear, whispers that promise he’s going to come and that he’s thought all day about coming inside me again.
His words thrill me. The idea that he wants to pour himself into me this way, the idea that I hold a piece of him deep inside my body is so intimate, so erotic I wonder if I’ll be able to think of anything else for the rest of the night.
When Tag finally releases me and lets my legs slowly straighten, he cups my cheek in his big palm and kisses the corner of my mouth.
“All through dinner, I want you to think about me, about how my warm come is still way up inside you. And I,” he says, tracing my upper lip with the tip of his tongue, “I will be thinking about this shower, about how you came on my face with your back pressed to the wall.”
I’m already getting breathless again when he takes my lips. His kiss is a mixture of satisfaction and promise and something fierce, like he wants to mark me as his own before I leave this room. It reminds me of what he said about seeing his muddy handprints on my body. He’s possessive, and for some reason, as antiquated as the thought is, I like it. I want to be possessed by him. I want to be his and no one else’s. And I love that he seems to want that, too.
Yes, I needed this. I needed him.
FOURTEEN
Tag
I hadn’t planned on joining Weatherly, her father and her would-be fiancé for dinner. I figured there would be enough of a blowup without my help. In fact, Weatherly and I didn’t even discuss it. We didn’t exactly have food on our minds as much as we did other delicious edibles. But after I left, and the more I thought about that cool shower and her come in my mouth, the less appealing dinner without her became. Turns out that my idea of torturing her with thoughts of us ended up torturing me just as much. Besides, as far as they’re concerned, she’s my fiancée. My place is at her side, whether they like it or not. And until she calls off this charade, she’s mine and Stromberg better damn well get used to it.
Now I find myself dressed in a silk shirt and slacks, headed toward the dining room for a fashionably late arrival to a dinner I wasn’t invited to attend. My smile is one of anticipation, both to get under Stromberg’s skin, but also to sit beside Weatherly and touch her oh-so-casually with fingers that were buried inside her only a short time before. That thought alone gives me much satisfaction.
When I stop in the doorway, all three people at the table glance up at me. William looks perplexed, Michael looks aggravated and Weatherly looks nervous yet deliciously flushed. I don’t have to be a mind reader to know what she’s thinking. In fact, if I think about her thoughts too long, I’ll probably end up having to excuse myself. My dick seems to have lost its head when it comes to Weatherly. She can make me hard faster than a cowboy can say “spit.” Damn the woman!
“Good to see you, Tag,” William offers when the silence becomes uncomfortable. “What brings you here tonight?”
“Dinner. If that’s all right,” I say, glancing at Weatherly.
“Why wouldn’t Weatherly’s fiancé be welcome at the dinner table?” Michael interjects, one dark brow jerking up in challenge. I nod my head in a mute touché.
William’s face starts to redden the instant he processes what was just said. “Weatherly, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Um, well, I wanted to tell you about it in private, but we’ve been on the go since you got here.”
“Tell me what?”
“Tag and I ar-are engaged.”
To William’s credit, he doesn’t freak like I half expected him to. He just gets quiet. Very quiet. But it’s easy to see by his rigid posture and the vein standing out in the center of his forehead that he’s livid.
Finally, he glances to Michael and offers a tight yet pleasant, “Excuse us, please.”
Then William gets up, tosses his napkin on the table and stalks out of the room, giving me an “eat shit” look as he passes.
I stop Weatherly with a hand to her arm when she reaches the doorway. “Will you be okay by yourself? I can come if . . .”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, impulsively rising up on her toes to give me a quick kiss. I’m sure that pisses both men the hell off, but I don’t give a damn.
William stalks on ahead and when Weatherly would pull away to follow him, I reach up to hold her to me for a few seconds longer. I don’t know why, but I want her to know she isn’t alone in this. And I want her asshole father and his bag-of-dicks friend to know that Weatherly isn’t alone, too.
When I let her go, she leans back and stares into my face, her violet eyes sparkling up at me like twin amethysts. In them, I see caution and dread, but a ferocious determination, too. That makes me smile.
I bend to whisper in her ear. “Maybe you should stop thinking about our showe
r for a few minutes. You might need all your concentration for this.”
Two pink spots infuse her cheeks and it’s all I can do not to drag her back upstairs and make her forget that there’s anyone in the house besides us.
“You are a wicked, wicked man, Tag Barton,” she scolds softly, licking her bottom lip when she moves her glance down to my mouth. “Your face cleaned up nicely by the way.”
She moves to walk past me and I turn to watch her go. When she looks back over her shoulder and grins, I think to myself that this woman might be more of a problem for me than I ever would’ve guessed.
FIFTEEN
Weatherly
“You’d better have an excellent explanation for this prank, young lady,” my father says the moment I shut the door to his study.
“Dad, I’ve told you all along that I want to marry for love, not for business or convenience.”
“And I have told you— Wait, so you’re telling me that you’re in love with this person? Just how gullible do you think I am, Weatherly?”
“Why is that so unbelievable? What do you know about my life other than what you choose to fill it with?”
“So you’re going to stand there and tell me that you’re in love with the help?”
“Oh, so that’s what this is about. You’re not nearly as upset that I’m engaged to someone else and didn’t tell you as you are about the fact that he’s not up to your high standards. Is that it?”
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here. I’m just trying to do what’s best for you, for our family. Like I always have. I’ve never been selfish and I didn’t raise you to be selfish.”
“God!” I say in exasperation. “Why is it so horrible, so unthinkable, so incredibly selfish to want to marry for love? This is America, right? Arranged marriages did go out with the cavemen, right?”
“It’s not like Michael is some kind of barbarian who will treat you poorly, Weatherly. For chrissake, he’s worth four hundred million dollars and he’d see to every comfort you could ever even dream of.”
