by M. Leighton
We are chest to chest, my aching breasts smashed to his firm pecs as he winds his arm around my waist and lifts me. My breath sticks in my throat when I feel him prod at my wet and swollen opening.
“Does this feel like just sex to you?” he growls, slamming me down on him so hard I cry out, arching against him. He picks me back up and does it again, throwing me straight into the wild, tumultuous throws of orgasm. “That’s more than just sex. That’s perfection,” he whispers, pumping his hips up into me as he moves me on his length.
I hear his loud groans in the fuzzy back of my mind as my body tosses me on the furious waves of release. I feel him spasm within me. I feel him pour out into me. I feel him swivel his hips as if to enjoy the feel of it inside me. “There’s no better feeling than my come inside you. Marking you. Staking my claim. Making this pussy mine,” he hisses against my neck, lips and teeth and tongue nipping me as he speaks. “Tell me this pussy is mine. Tell me nobody else can have it. Say it. Say it!”
“It’s yours. All yours,” I moan and mutter, my mouth dry and my throat raw. “My pussy is all yours.”
His low roar resonates in my ear at the same time that I feel the sharp pulse of him inside me, a last spurt of warmth shooting up into me. It’s as though he really is marking me, sealing our deal from the inside, and the thought of it, the idea of it, is enough to send another bolt of pleasure rocketing through me.
“Marry me,” he whispers, his lips pressed to my throat, his heaving breath searing my skin. “Say you’ll marry me. Not because I’m an out, not because you’re trying to stick it to your father. Marry me because you need me as much as I need you. Marry me because you want my mornings as much as I want yours. Marry me because you want the afternoons and the nights, the smiles and the tears, the good and the bad. Marry me because you want all of me. Like I want all of you. All of you, every day. Every. Single. Day. Say you’ll be mine.”
I consider one answer. It’s the only one I want to give. So I do. God help me, I do.
“I’m already yours, but I’ll marry you anyway.”
When Tag’s lips find mine again, there’s a sweetness to them, a reverence that causes my eyes to fill with tears of pure, radiant joy.
“This is what’s in it for me,” he breathes against my mouth, cupping my face so that his thumbs make lazy passes over my cheekbones. “You. Always.”
I know in this moment that there will never be another man like this one. I’ll never find someone who fits me like Tag does, who thrills me like Tag does. Who can love me like Tag just did.
—
I wake to an empty bed. After that phenomenal experience on the four-wheeler, Tag drove us back, slowly weaving through the trees and casually cruising through the fields. Something quiet and comfortable had settled between us. The house was asleep by the time we returned. We crept up the stairs to my room and washed each other off in the cool spray of the shower before crawling between the crisp sheets and falling straight to sleep, my head nestled on Tag’s chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulders.
I wonder briefly where he went, but when I roll over, my body is so pleasantly achy and sore that I forget my curiosity for a few minutes and just revel in the memories of his touch. I’ve had a few boyfriends in my life, boys (and in some cases men) who fit the criteria of an O’Neal match. I even really liked one of them. His name was Robert Cohen and he took my virginity. There was a time, in my young mind, when I even fantasized that he might grow up to be “the one,” even though part of me realized that was very unlikely to happen. Turns out Robert was gay, he just hadn’t come out yet. I think on some level I knew, but it was much nicer to pretend.
After Robert, there was a guy in college who I thought I had great chemistry with, especially after we had sex. Turned out that he had too many mommy issues for me, though. And as good as the sex was, I never imagined it could be like this. I never dreamed I could come alive for someone this way. Tag is just different. With him, I’m different. I’m someone I’ve always wanted to be. And he’s like someone I’ve always wanted to be with, even when the idea of him was almost too taboo to even consider. For an O’Neal anyway.
But here we are.
Together.
And we’re going to get married.
I smile. I can’t seem to help myself.
I carry that smile with me all through the day. And the next ones, too. Despite my father’s glaring and despite Michael’s openly disapproving looks, I smile, basking in what’s happening between Tag and me.
We spend our days together, in the fields, in the cabin, in the woods. Or in my room. The grapes are getting closer and closer to readiness, and I feel like I’m ripening right along with them. All my life, I’ve never really felt like I’m flourishing until now. Until Chiara. Until Tag.
Tag and I breakfast by ourselves and take packed lunches wherever we go. We talk and laugh and make out like high school kids who can’t keep their hands off each other. We share long looks and sometimes short naps like we don’t have a care in the world. And for the moment, it feels as though we don’t. It’s as if trouble has been suspended, disallowed entry into our happy little bubble, and I for one am going to enjoy every damn second of it.
At dinner, Tag does a great job of keeping conversation focused on Chiara, and when it’s not, we talk softly among ourselves, leaving my father and Michael to do the same. They don’t, though. Mostly, they just glower at us.
And then there are the nights. God, just thinking about them causes my sex to shudder hungrily. Sometimes I think I could lie next to him 24/7 and never get tired of the feel of his touch, of his kiss, of his body working magic within mine. And when he’s not around, like now, it’s as though I can’t quite get comfortable with life until I see him again.
I jump when my phone rings. Surprisingly, I’d almost forgotten it was in my pocket. I grabbed it out of habit after dressing, before I headed down here to the lanai. It hasn’t made a peep in days and I haven’t checked it in just as long. It’s a tie to the outside world (and the problems therein) that I really would rather forget about. The fact that it’s my assistant’s number rather than my mother’s tells me that my father hasn’t told her about Tag yet, which gives me a nice little reprieve.
I stare at the number. I feel the weight of my trust-held-hostage bearing down on me as I move my finger over the green TALK button. As much as I’d like to stay in my happy bubble of oblivion, I can’t ignore my biggest responsibility, so I answer the phone.
“Hi, Deana,” I answer politely, coming to my feet to walk to the edge of the water.
“Hey, Weatherly, sorry to bother you, but I have some news I thought you’d be interested in.”
I can clearly picture Deana’s dark brown eyes sparkling in the rounded contours of her pretty face. Her cheeks are youthfully chubby, even for her twenty-six years, which gives her a perpetually mischievous look, like a chipmunk up to no good.
“What’s that?”
“We got an anonymous donation to Safe Passage.”
I’m not sure what makes that noteworthy. We do very well with donations, but it would take ten times the number of them to keep us moving in the direction that I’ve been planning toward. The direction that would be a breeze if I could get my trust.
For the first time since all this talk of engagements and marriages, the reality of my situation hits me. If I marry Tag, I’m dooming all the kids that I planned to help. Yes, Safe Passage could still do great work, but it would be a greater, broader, more massive effort if it had a few million dollars more.
Guilt and indecision strike. And they strike hard.
“Let me call you right back, Deana,” I tell her quickly, hanging up and stumbling back to drop down onto the end of the chaise I just vacated.
I can’t marry Tag. My father is right. That would be the most irresponsible thing in the world. Not just for my family in lig
ht of the Randolph takeover, but for the kids as well. I can’t put my happiness before the needs of starving children. Ultimately, my mother was right. I’m not a selfish person. At least not selfish enough to throw away millions of dollars that could feed thousands and thousands of hungry kids for years to come.
Why do I feel like crying? This was all basically a ruse from the very beginning. It’s not like I’m losing the love of my life.
Right?
Then why does it feel that way? Why does it feel as though I’m giving up something rare and precious and wonderful?
The soft pad of shoes across the patio work to pull me out of the miserable vortex I was sinking into. I glance up to see Tag striding toward me, a pleased half smile drawing his lips up at the corners.
God, he’s amazing! Everything about him is perfect. At least for me. He appeals to me on a deep, soulful level, not just a physical one.
“You waiting for me, gorgeous?” he asks, bending to set his fists on either side of my hips so he can press his lips to mine. As always, a wildfire is kindled within seconds, leaving me well on my way to breathlessness.
“What if I was?” I ask, torn between the dark cloud of my circumstance and the bright sun of Tag’s presence.
“Then wait no more. I’ve come to save the day,” he says playfully.
I can’t help smiling. “You have? And how do you plan to do that?”
“Well, I’d like to start by whisking you away on my four-wheeled chariot. I’ve got something to show you.”
The temptation to leave trouble and worry and inevitability behind for just a little while longer, just a few hours more, is overwhelming. I reach up to wrap my arms around Tag’s neck and bring his face back to mine. “Take me away, kind sir,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his again.
This feels right. It feels like nothing can harm us or affect us when we are together, touching. Tag straightens, pulling me up with him and wraps his arms tight around my waist. I love it when he does this. He holds me like he doesn’t ever want to let me go, like he’s daring anyone to try and take me from him. So possessive. So thrilling.
“Better stop that now, fair Weatherly,” he says softly when he drags his lips from mine. “Or else the only place we’ll be going is upstairs.”
I giggle, feeling like a teenager again. “You aren’t supposed to give me choices like that. I might choose the wrong one.”
“Okay, how about come with me now and then we’ll resume kissing. And go upstairs. If we can make it that far. If not, all I can promise is that I’ll try to find some soft grass.”
I grin up at him. He grins down at me. “Deal.”
I squeal when he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me across the patio, around to the front of the house where his four-wheeled chariot awaits. He throws his leg over it and sets me across his lap in front of him. I lower my arms, winding them around his waist as I lean my head against his strong, wide chest. There’s literally no place else in the whole world I’d rather be.
The engine throbs to life beneath us and Tag punches the gas, sending us careening down the path toward our cabin. Since that first night we spent in the half-finished structure, we’ve both called it “ours.” And considering how many times we’ve made love there since then, it’s fitting.
Tag doesn’t stop at our cabin, though. He takes a left and heads up the mountain, toward the forest. I close my eyes, not worrying about where we’re going. I’m content with the feel of the sun on my face, the wind in my hair and the heartbeat tapping under my ear.
I know when we enter the woods. The temperature drops by about ten degrees and Tag slows considerably. He drives us back to the edge of the drop-off, the one that overlooks the waterfall, where he stops.
The view is not quite as mystical in the daylight, but it’s every bit as stunning. The sun pours down into the crease in the mountain face, kissing every treetop and turning the waterfall to a million-sparkling-diamond-fall. Other than the hiss of water on rocks, the only sounds that interrupt the blissful silence are the soft whisper of the breeze teasing the leaves and the distant chirp of some birds.
“I missed something the other night,” Tag says from behind me. I pull my eyes from one miracle of nature to another, equally spellbound when I gaze up into his flawlessly formed face.
“I don’t remember you missing anything on any night,” I tell him with a shy smile. Sometimes, I can’t believe we are this intimate. Although he never comments on it, I know I still blush occasionally.
“Well I did. And I’m here to correct my oversight.”
Tag eases out from under me, leaving me sitting sideways on the four-wheeler. He pauses for a quick second, his face a breathtaking mask of what looks like anticipation, before he reaches into his pocket for a small box and then drops to one knee in front of me. My heart stutters to a stop in my chest and the backs of my eyes burn like fire.
Ceremoniously, he slowly snaps open the lid to the velvet box, revealing the most incredible ring I’ve ever laid eyes on. The center stone is an enormous round diamond, cut perfectly to capture every possible facet of light. It’s flanked by four small amethyst ovals, slightly offset so that they appear to be wings. Below them are diamonds of a similar shape, which form the body of the butterflies. The stones are graceful, the placement subtle, making the ring simply breathtaking. And my breath is taken.
“Tag, it’s . . .” I don’t even know what to say. I just follow it with my eyes as he takes it from the tiny cushion and places it on my finger.
“Amethysts for your eyes. Butterflies for your freedom. Diamonds because you’re mine,” he says softly, just before he kisses the ring where it rests on my finger. “I’ll ask you again, my fair Weatherly. The right way. Will you marry me?”
Tears flood my eyes. I want to say yes more than I’ve ever wanted anything except Tag Barton himself, but I can’t. I just can’t do that to the kids that I’ve worked so hard to help. Thousands of them depend on Safe Passage for their nourishment, and thousands more depend on us for breakfast at school or food on the weekends.
“Tag, I . . .” I can’t bring myself to say no. The word just won’t fit past the boulder lodged in my throat. It seems everything I’ve ever wanted is right here, kneeling before me, asking me to be his, yet my father still manages to stand in the way. He knows me so well. Too well. He knew where to hit me where it would hurt the most. And he did.
My phone bleeps from my pocket. An incoming text. I take the signal as an excuse to gather my composure before I do what must be done. “Pardon me,” I mutter, taking it out and sliding my finger over the screen. It’s a message from Deana. Evidently, she got tired of waiting for me to call her back.
Oops.
Deana: Five million dollars.
Me: Five million dollars? Am I supposed to know what that means?
Deana: SOMEONE DONATED FIVE MILLION DOLLARS.
Me: WHAT? WHO?
Deana: Maybe this guy I met at a fund-raiser who was looking for a good write-off. But who cares? SOMEONE DONATED FIVE MILLION DOLLARS!
I stare at the screen for several long seconds, my heart pounding as I read and re-read the words. Someone donated five million dollars. We’ve always had a handful of generous donors, but no one has ever given an amount substantial enough to allow the charity to function without my help, without my money. Well, technically Dad’s money, I guess. And that was never a problem until recently. Maybe Deana’s guy came through. Maybe someone else heard of us and felt the need to help. I don’t know. I don’t know and I don’t really care. Whoever it was and whatever the reason, someone donated five million dollars to Safe Passage.
Five. Million. Dollars. Dollars that buy my freedom.
With this money, we’ll be okay without my trust money. That means that the kids won’t suffer no matter what I do. That means that I can marry Tag.
Because, G
od help me, I want to.
I toss my phone aside, not caring when I hear it drop to the ground on the other side of the four-wheeler, and I throw my arms around Tag’s neck. I can’t dial back the brightness of the smile that wreaths my face when I give him my answer. “Yes. I’d love to marry you, magnificent Tag.”
I don’t think of the kids, the money or the butterflies again for quite some time.
TWENTY
Tag
As much as I wanted to lend Weatherly a hand with her shower, I knew I needed to check on Mom. I haven’t seen her since late last night.
The caretaker’s quarters is basically a tiny cottage located at the rear of the property, right at the edge of the oldest of the Chiara vines. Its dark, aged brick matches that of the main house, only this structure is about one-sixteenth the size. Although the inside is quaint and functional, consisting of a small kitchen, a sitting room and a good-sized master bed and bath, the wide porch off the back is my favorite part. It overlooks the fields, something that I used to hate, but have since grown to appreciate.
When I was a kid, the sitting room was actually my room, but after I left for the military Mom converted it back to its original state and gave my bed to a needy family she knew in town. That’s why I was staying in the guest cabin when I first got back after Dad died. Not that I would’ve been comfortable sleeping in the room next to my mother. Not with a social life that’s as . . . active as mine has always been.
It actually worked out perfectly since Mom got sick. She has a place that she can relax in peace and quiet. I have privacy. Well, I had privacy. It wasn’t until the cabin started renting again that it became a problem. Luckily, since the owners are rarely here, William didn’t have a problem with me taking up residence in one of the spare rooms in the main house. It’s when he got a complaint about the plumbing that I suggested we remodel. He was agreeable. For the most part, I don’t think he gives a shit about this place as long as the wine’s good and it continues making him some money.
