A Veil of Vines

by Tillie Cole

  I should have stopped it. I knew I should have stopped it. But I moved closer, pressing my breasts to his chest, breathless as he hissed and let out a groan.

  And that was all it took.

  That was all it took to break the shy, retiring winemaker into a soul untamed. Achille reached down and took hold of the bottom of my thighs, lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist. My already ruined dress split at the back, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was the man whose neck my arms were wrapped around, the warm skin searing its blazing heat through mine, and the lips that were joined against my own—wanting me, needing me, taking me—just like I craved.

  I closed my eyes as we urgently explored each other’s mouths, as if time were a fragile hourglass, the sand taunting us, stealing away this moment, reminding us that our hearts could not entwine.

  Achille stepped out of the crushing barrel and carried me into the heavy sheet of rain outside. The water was a cooling balm as it fell from the stormy sky above, drenching us, yet our lips still did not part.

  We could not be separated . . .

  . . . not even for a moment.

  Achille’s feet sloshed on the flooding ground, and the remaining sounds of Andrea Bocelli’s hypnotizing voice sailed away into the distance as he carried me into his house.

  I pulled my head back with a gasp, blinking as my mascara rolled down my cheeks. Achille’s lips were reddened from my smeared lipstick, his eyes dancing with light. He clearly didn’t care what I looked like. In that second, I couldn’t care either. Our movements were rough and raw and fumbled . . . we were tangled, chaotic perfection, a frantic, flawless mess.

  The fire was roaring, basking the small living room in burnt orange and yellow and red. The wood crackled and split, and its earthy smell filled every inch of the air.

  Achille’s eyes met my own, and for a brief, suspended moment we simply stared at each other. I drank in his beauty as he did my own. No words were spoken, yet we communicated with ease.

  His parted lips told me he wanted me. His flushed cheeks told me he hungered for me. But his open, honest gaze told me he needed me more than air.

  “Yes,” I whispered. It was all that needed to be said.

  Achille took me from the living room, down a small hallway and into a bedroom. The entire time, I ran my hands through his thick, black, wet hair and over his stubbled cheeks and tensed neck. I had to touch him.

  I could not let him go, not even for a single second.

  He was a drug I could not forego. I lusted for the hit of his taste, the high from the heat of his body.

  Achille stopped before a simple wooden-framed full-size bed. The room was sparse but for the bed and a nightstand. An oil-burning lamp sat in the window, a curiously old-fashioned light, yet perfectly suited to this cottage. The warm glow cast a golden sunset hue over the room, the slightly open window allowing the pitter-patter of rain to be our serenade.

  I could hear his heart pounding next to mine. Then, in a move that made my legs tremble and an intense lightness fill my chest, Achille ran the back of his finger so painstakingly slowly down my cheek that it brought tears to my eyes. He was cherishing me . . . memorizing me. He was worshiping me as though I were the answer to his prayers.

  In that moment, he felt like the answer to all of mine.

  His hands drifted from the tops of my shoulders to the nape of my neck. He unzipped my dress. Cool air kissed my damp skin as the ruined material slid delicately from my body. I did not move my eyes from Achille’s the whole time. So, when my dress slipped to the floor, pooling at my feet, and my white lace bra and panties were exposed to his naked gaze, I witnessed it all—the burning desire filling every part of his beautiful face, his clenching jaw and flushed skin as he dropped his eyes to study my bared body.

  A moan slipped through my lips, my eyelashes fluttering to a close, as his fingers wandered along the crests of my breasts. The feel of him touching me so closely, of having Achille Marchesi caressing me just as reverently as he nurtured his wine, was the headiest of sensations.

  I opened my eyes, lids heavy, as warmth built at my core. Achille reached down to unfasten the front clasp of my bra. With a soft tug, the bra joined the dress at my feet.

  My nipples ached as my damp skin was exposed to the warming air. Achille cupped my flesh in his hands, and a hiss ripped from his throat. I moaned at the feel of him touching me so intimately. He stepped closer and pressed the bare skin of his chest against me.

  The sensation was almost too much to bear. Every cell in my body roared to life, a mighty ache in my chest pulling me further and further against Achille, yet yearning to get closer still. He molded me to him like a second skin. His hands on my back trapped me in their grip, his cheek running along my cheek, his earthy musk warming my skin.

  Our lips fell back together, and all the tenderness ebbed away, along with any worries I had that this act between us was wrong.

  His tongue slipped along mine. Our hands roved and branded, clawing at one another with a desperate urgency; no more patience remained. My hands moved down his hard abdominals, feeling them flex and twitch, before landing on the waistband of his jeans. My fingers trembled as they unsnapped the button and pulled down the zipper, brushing down over his hardness.

  Achille groaned as my hand reached inside, shaking like a leaf with anticipation. I returned the pained sound when my hand met his flesh, no underwear blocking my way.

  He was hard and large and so warm to the touch. My free hand tugged on the falling waistband of his jeans and helped drop them from his tapered muscled hips. Achille’s tall, broad frame dominated me, towering over me, making me shake where I stood.

  As I gave him one gentle stroke, it unleashed something wild within him. His hands fell to the sides of my panties and, with one pull, tore them from their seams. The delicate French lace fluttered like gossamer feathers to the floor.

  And that’s how we took pause. Exposed, vulnerable—two hearts and souls and bodies unveiled. Achille’s breathing echoed in my ear, roughened like a harsh wind rustling through fallen autumn leaves.

  Achille, with an easy strength, lifted me from the clothes at my feet, and into his muscled arms. I held on tightly, never wanting this feeling to end. Never wanting to leave the security of his embrace, and never wanting to be parted from this man who was burrowing his goodness into my blood and my bones.

  He turned and lowered me down until my back landed on the soft mattress below. As the weight of my body hit the faded patchwork comforter, his scent from the fabric engulfed me. This was the bed where he slept each night, where he dreamed and despaired, resting his tired body and gentle soul.

  Achille moved back as he freed himself from the jeans at his ankles, standing in the oil lamp’s glow. And I couldn’t breathe at the sight. His body was toned to perfection, not over-muscled, but athletic and strong, with the most stunning golden olive skin just begging for my touch. He looked down at me, naked and exposed on his bed, with nothing but fire and desire in his eyes.

  For me.

  Only for me.

  “Caresa . . .” Achille murmured, edging forward. For the first time since we had given in to our lust, I saw nervousness etch across his beautiful face. He froze; fear had robbed him of his courage.

  I held out my arms, guiding him to me, coaxing him near. “I have to have this,” I said softly, a slight tremor to my voice. “I have to have you, Achille.”

  “Caresa,” Achille moaned again, but this time came forward, his hands landing on either side of my body.

  The minute he was over me, his arms caging my head and his body covering mine, we locked eyes—blue searing brown. He pushed a damp curl from my face, a gentle, contented smile upon his lips. An all-encompassing emotion swept through me, a realization of peace found in another’s embrace.

  Achille laid the sweetest of sweet kisses to the center of my forehead and whispered, “Beautiful . . . beautiful . . .” The ravenous heat of the previous moment
was, in a second, turned on its head. Gone was the hungry, desperate need, and in its place a calm serenity shared in the vulnerability of the other.

  Before Achille could see the tear escaping from the corner of my eye, I threaded my hands through his hair and brought his lips to mine. He melted against me like ice under the Umbrian sun. This kiss was slow and deep and true.

  It was a tattoo on my heart.

  Achille’s hand skirted down my waist, landing on my thigh, pushing it to the side. He slipped his hips between my legs, placing his body flush against mine. Stomach to stomach, chest to breast, kiss to lips.

  I felt his hardness against my core and spilled my moan into his mouth. He rolled his hips, touching me where I needed it most. “Caresa,” he rasped against my mouth, his skin scalding the palms of my roaming hands.

  I reached down between us as our temperatures soared, stroking him in my hand. He followed my lead, running his fingers along my most sensitive part. My back arched and my skin prickled.

  Achille peppered kisses along my jaw and over my cheek, until I hit a sudden peak. I screamed out his name, pressing against his fingers until every last morsel of pleasure had been wrung from my body.

  But I wanted more.

  I needed more.

  Guiding Achille’s hand away with my own, I shifted until he was moving toward my entrance, exactly where he belonged. He stared into my eyes, his jaw clenching as I took him in my hand once again. His olive skin glistened under the strain of maintaining his composure.

  “I want you so badly,” I whispered. Achille’s eyes closed, and he pushed forward. My head tipped back as his length filled me, until I was consumed by his scent, devoured by his touch. I could not see where he ended and I began. I felt him within me, both physically and spiritually, the connection simultaneously wondrous and terrifying.

  Achille tensed as he filled me to the hilt, his breathing ragged and raw. His arms tensed as he held me close. I looked up at his face, and I melted. His eyes were studying me as if I were a dream, as if at any moment I could disappear, to leave him all alone once more. His lips were red and slightly open, and his soft skin was flushed and warm. I lifted my hand and pressed it against his cheek. Achille curled into my touch just as surely as a sunflower follows the warmth of the sun across the sky.

  His mouth found the center of my palm and pressed on it a single kiss. I wasn’t sure why, but that pure, sweet gesture shattered my heart. It was as though it was a silent thank-you; for what, I could only guess.

  Then, as if he could not wait any longer, he rolled his hips, moving inside me. My hand, still burning from his kiss, became wrapped in his hand, his fingers threading tightly through my own. His lips sought out mine. In seconds there was nothing unconnected between us. We were two halves of one whole, clinging and clutching, desperate for each other.

  Achille increased his speed, the hard muscles of his chest brushing against my breasts, shivers of pleasure darting straight to my core. “Achille,” I murmured over and over as the feeling of him inside me became too much, yet not enough.

  He moved faster and faster, low raspy groans slipping from his lips. The heat between us rose until condensation built on the window and our skin was slick with sweat.

  When I wasn’t sure I could take any more, a tension so great, so earth-shatteringly beautiful, began surging at my core and flooding through my veins. “Achille,” I cried, my fingernails pressing into the flesh on his back.

  I knew Achille was as close as I when his movements became stronger and more jagged, his head tucking into my neck. My eyes closed and I smiled, feeling him take such comfort in me, such absolute happiness.

  And then it hit. Pleasure, like nothing I’d ever felt before, engulfed me like a flame, taking every part of my body hostage as it burned through all my senses, only to restore them with bliss and light and life.

  Achille groaned. His body stilled above me and he filled me with his warmth. The muscles in his back bunched and jerked, then slowly calmed along with his rapidly beating heart.

  I ghosted my fingertips over his back, more than content to stay exactly like this—joined in every possible way, calm in the peace after the storm.

  Achille’s warm breath dusted over my neck, until he carefully lifted his head. I had thought him beautiful since the day I had first seen him working in his vineyard, torso bare with jean-clad legs. But as his sated face met mine, awe and reverence so clear in his expression, I knew I had been mistaken. Because nothing could ever beat this moment.

  The moment I realized this had not just been about making love. But that something bigger, deeper pulsed between us. And then my heart broke, because whatever dormant spark had just ignited within us, it must not be given chance to flourish.

  Tears filled my eyes. This could never be. We were from two completely different worlds. We weren’t written in the stars.

  “I know.” Achille spoke in a pained and graveled voice. I turned my head and allowed myself to look into his eyes. His chest expanded as he took in a heavy breath. “I know.” He slid to the side and wrapped me in his arms, cradling my face into the crook of his shoulder and neck. “There can never be more than this—”

  “Achille,” I whispered painfully, hearing the sadness and resignation in his tone.

  “You are not part of this world, and I am not part of yours.” I didn’t have anything else to say. It was the truth, and no frivolous sentiments or empty promises would ever change things.

  So I relaxed into his chest, savoring each second that we had left. Achille’s hands ran lazily through my hair, and I stared through the window at the falling rain.

  The oil lamp flickered in the breeze, the golden reflections dancing over the white-painted walls. My eyes became lost in the trance, so much so that I nearly missed Achille take a long breath, then softly say, “They said I was slow.”

  My gut clenched. I stilled, every muscle in my body going rigid.

  “They said that I was dumb and nothing would ever change that.”

  I winced. My chest cracked in two at the embarrassment in his voice. I didn’t speak. I didn’t want to push him or say anything that would stop him from opening up.

  He no longer had his father. No one to share in his pain.

  I would be that person for him tonight. He needed this from me. I couldn’t give him my heart, so this would have to be enough.

  When the sun rose, this would all be a distant dream.

  So I prayed to God and begged him to keep the darkness at bay as long as he could. To keep our stars shining and the rain crashing down . . . so I would have time to say goodbye.

  Chapter Nine

  Achille

  Caresa had become a statue in my arms. I was racked with nerves as I bared my shame. My father had always told me that I wasn’t dumb, that my weakness in academics did not define me or how intelligent I was. But I was sure he had only said that to make me feel better.

  I wasn’t like everyone else. The teachers, even the king, had made sure I knew that. He is not meant for academia, but instead for the fields, King Santo had said to my father.

  I always found it strange that I could use my hands to make the wine, yet the minute I tried to hold a pencil or pen, my fingers would fail.

  I couldn’t even write my name.

  “When I . . . when I look at the words on a page, they never make sense. The lines blur and the letters jump around.” My breath caught in my throat. “My eyes don’t see what other people see when they read. My brain doesn’t function the same way as everyone else’s.” I laughed a humorless laugh. “I talk of Plato and Tolkien’s books, yet I haven’t managed more than a few pages in my entire life. My eyes get tired from trying to decipher each word, and I get so frustrated that I have to walk away.” I sighed, my stomach sinking. “Maybe I am just dumb after all. Maybe the teachers and King Santo were right—academia isn’t for me.”

  Caresa’s head snapped up at my words. Her skin was still flushed from when we h
ad made love. But her soft expression had changed into one so severe it took me by surprise. “They were wrong,” she said. “They were all so wrong it incenses me.” I blinked at her in surprise. Caresa shuffled from under my arms, flipped onto her stomach and rested her folded arms on my torso. “Achille, you are not dumb. One only has to be in your presence for a few minutes to see that you are one of the brightest, most talented people walking this earth.” She closed her eyes, calming herself down. I didn’t take my eyes off her, her compliment seeping down deep into my bones.

  She opened her eyes. “I am not fully qualified. I have no official papers to diagnose you. But I think you are dyslexic and maybe dyspraxic. The two commonly go hand in hand.” Her eyes narrowed. “So let’s get one thing straight. You are not dumb. Your vocabulary is extensive, your understanding of any given topic is vast and sound. You are not dumb, Achille, and you are selling yourself short by allowing that falsehood to take root.”

  “What is dys . . . dysle . . .” I shook my head, not able to remember the names.

  “Dyslexia is when your brain struggles to make connections to words. It is not uncommon and can be aided tremendously with specialized, personal programs. Dyspraxia has many forms. It is when some of your motor skills are not as strong as others. It may be why you struggle holding a pen yet you are able to easily hold reins and make wine. There is no blueprint. Everyone is different. Some tasks you think will be difficult come easily; other simple tasks may feel like the most impossible thing in the world.”

  “I find bottling the wine difficult too. Nothing else, but I struggle when it comes to bottling,” I admitted shyly. “The small pieces that are used in the process are hard for me to control.” Caresa nodded as if it made perfect sense. Nothing about this had ever made sense to me, yet she understood my problem in mere seconds.

  “It is a case of crossed wires. Picture it as the brain’s usually clear path being blocked with fallen branches. We simply have to find another route, but that route can be found, no matter how hopeless it seems.” She gritted her teeth, looking so adorably fierce. “I will not allow you to think of yourself as unworthy or subpar. You are not. I won’t accept that, and you should not accept that of yourself either.”