Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  “What the hell are you doing?” His eyes pinch as he speaks.

  “I was going to make you dinner. Something you can reheat when you feel better.”

  His eyes close a second, and he breathes deep. His tone is sharp when he says, “I don’t need food.” I stop what I’m doing, leave the pans where they sit on the counter, and turn for the door. I’m making him worse.

  “Wait,” he snaps, and I stop short of exiting, my back to him. He’s suddenly behind me. Not touching me, but breathing me in with only a sliver of space between us. “I’m sorry.”

  His arms wrap around me, and he tugs me against him. His nose dips into the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I can see you’re in pain. I’ll just leave you be.”

  “Don’t go,” he whispers, and something in his tone keeps me in place.

  “You said you get these sometimes. What happened?” Concern fills my voice.

  “Maybe it’s like a caffeine headache? You know when you don’t drink enough. It’s a sex-deprivation headache instead.” He chuckles, but then he winces against my skin.

  “Would sex help you feel better?” I tease. He groans. There’s no way he could concentrate or perform with the pain I sense he’s in.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.

  “My dick you want to lick?” he teases, still speaking into my neck, and I laugh. At least he sounds more like him than he did last night at the door.

  “Incredible,” I say.

  “Insatiable, you mean.” We had sex seven times in forty-eight hours. Seven! That’s a week in two days. He can’t possibly feel deprived.

  He walks us backward until he hits the edge of the couch.

  “Stay with me,” he mutters, and I can’t deny him with the strain in his voice. I sit on his cushions, and he lies down with his head in my lap. He turns on the television with low volume, and I comb through his hair with my fingertips, rubbing gently over his scalp. After a few minutes, he shifts so his face presses into my stomach.

  “The light’s bothering me,” he explains.

  “I can turn it off.” I’m not really watching the movie anyway.

  “No.” His voice sounds garbled as he presses his nose to my belly and then wraps an arm around my lower back. I continue to stroke over his head, watching him. His eyes close. His brows pinch. He’s so vulnerable in this position—anchoring himself to me—as if he’s afraid I might drift away.

  “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” I say softly, leaning toward his ear.

  “I like you calling me that,” he says, his voice sleepy as he snuggles into me, pressing tighter at my back.

  “Sleep, baby.” Sweet dreams, Garrett. I hope they are filled with me.

  22

  Santa’s list

  [Garrett]

  I wake to a tender snore above my head and a kink in my neck. I roll to discover I’m still positioned on Dolores’s lap, and I glance up at her. Her head lies at an awkward angle against the back of my couch. One hand must have been on my hip, but when I shifted, it slipped to my front, which bulges as I was having the most lucid dream about her. Us. Together.

  She was laughing as she ran between grapevines in bloom, and I was chasing her. Her skirt billowed out behind her, and her laughter called back to me. She wanted me to follow her. I eventually caught up to her, wrapping an arm around her from behind, and we tumbled to the ground. Under the broad blue sky and bright sunshine, we made love, and warmth from both the day and her body surrounded me. The heat is one reason I woke. I’m burning up.

  I sit up gingerly and startle Dolores who gave one hearty, deep snort before lunging her head forward.

  “Goodness,” she mutters in a groggy voice. “Did I wake you?” Her fingers swipe at the corner of her mouth.

  “No.” I reach out to cup the back of her neck and just stare at her. We have this uncanny way of looking at one another for longer than should be comfortable. Her looking back at me is like she can see deep beneath the surface of me.

  Can you see inside my hollow chest?

  I didn’t mean to hurt her yesterday. I was a total dick. I didn’t mean to be short with her earlier about the pots and pans. When I have one of these headaches, it hurts like hell, and I’m sensitive to noise. I also don’t like bright light. I’m still a little foggy. With a nudge at my hip from Wally, I break the hold I have on Dolores.

  “He needs to go out again,” she says. “I can take him.”

  I turn toward the windows to discover it’s already dark. I don’t want her walking on the beach this late at night.

  “I’ll just take him down to the grass by the lot and be right back,” I say, rolling off the couch and walking to the front door. I turn to look back at her, her sleepy gaze watching me as she crosses her arms on the back of the couch and rests her chin on her hands. An achy panic fills my chest, and I rub at the place near my heart. “You’ll stay, right?”

  “I thought you’d want me to go home.”

  “I don’t. I’d like you to stay.”

  Dolores’s brows furrow while she gives me a dreamy grin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The pounding in my chest increases. “I’ll meet you in bed in ten.”

  “Sex deprivation,” she teases as her grin increases.

  “I’ll sleep better if you’re next to me,” I admit, not wanting to seem like a sex-starved teenager who only wants one thing from her. I want so much more from her, and the realization hit me hard today.

  I missed her.

  Have I kissed her yet tonight? I need to kiss her. I need to apologize.

  Since I took Dolores to the vineyard, my investment vision has become clearer in my head, and I spent the greater part of the day working on details. I have a plan, and for me, that means I want immediate gratification. I told myself it was the reason for my headache, but in reality, it’s all the overthinking I’ve been doing since leaving Dolores yesterday evening. I need to tell her what happened in Atlanta. What Denton suggested. I think that’s what brought on much of today’s headache. My thoughts weighed heavy on me all morning, and I’d worked myself up. I should have told her this weekend. I should have kissed her last night. I should have asked her to stay with me. She consumes me, and my chest aches with this need I feel for her.

  After Wally does his business, I return to the condo and climb into my bed. It’s a bit surreal to see Dolores under my sheets, waiting for me. I mean, we’ve slept here before together, but this time, it feels different. I crawl in next to her but remain on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  “I need to apologize,” I say and turn my head to face her. She’s sitting up in bed, and an image of us in this position in the future filters through my head like the dream of chasing her through a vineyard. A silly dream.

  “For what?” She gives no hint to her feelings, but she was hurt yesterday with my behavior in the forest. I didn’t give her an explanation, and then I just left her at Denton’s door last night.

  “Yesterday, I…I don’t know why I acted the way I did. I don’t know why I sent you home.”

  Dolores stares over at me. “It’s okay,” she whispers much like she did into my chest while we stood in the forest. Why hadn’t I told her then how I felt or at least tried to describe this feeling inside me? Her brows pinch. It’s not okay how I acted, and I have an idea. A way to make it up to her.

  “I have something to ask you.” I broach the subject, chewing on my lip as Dolores stiffens beside me. I softly chuckle. That came out a tad dramatic. Then again, asking Dolores to attend the WomenFirst Christmas gala is big for me. This year the event is especially important, and making her my date is an unprecedented move on my part. “I have this thing to attend, and I was wondering if you would go with me.”

  Her forehead furrows as if she’s trying to find an angle. “What kind of thing?”

  “It’s a Christmas thing.” I don’t know why I’m minimizing the gala. The organization raise
s money for women and children of domestic abuse. It’s a good cause and one dear to me as my father left our mother with four small children and a broken heart under a few crushed ribs.

  “Like a Christmas party?” Her voice lowers as if she has forgotten we are upon the season.

  “It’s a fundraiser for charity with a Christmas theme.”

  “A Christmas theme,” she scoffs as she stares at me. “So a Christmas party. Do I need to get dressed up?” Her wardrobe isn’t always her top concern, and from the purchases she’s made, it’s clear most of her clothing is casual and practical. The dress for our dance lessons won’t be enough this time. She’s going to need something a bit fancier for the party.

  “Why don’t you let me take care of it?” I suggest. She needs something elegant and long and black to set off her eyes and her hair. Her head tilts, questioning me.

  “You aren’t going to make me wear an elf costume or anything ridiculous like that, are you?”

  I chuckle. The pain in my head has subsided considerably. Instead, my thoughts fill with her wearing a naughty elf outfit and me playing sexy Santa. She could sit on my lap and tell me all the ways she’s been a bad girl this year.

  “Actually, it’s a bit more formal than a costume party.”

  Her eyes narrow, suspicious once again. “How formal?”

  “Can you just trust me?” I tease, suddenly wanting to surprise her with a beautiful dress and a fancy night out. It’s the perfect evening to tell her everything.

  “I do trust you.” The way she says it sounds like something more, something deeper, and suddenly, my chest pinches again. An echo, like a singular drum, thumps behind my ribs. I sit up and lean toward her, kiss her like I should have done last night, and this morning, and when I came home. I missed her mouth all day.

  “How is your headache?” she asks after a long latching to one another. Our bodies shift closer and begin to entwine.

  “You cured me,” I tease.

  “I’m not a doctor.” She giggles under the kisses I place on her neck.

  “No, but I think you’re a miracle worker.” She’s definitely more powerful than a cardiologist if she’s resuscitating my heart.

  “You’re sweet,” she murmurs, returning to my lips. Her mouth moves tenderly over mine, drawing my lower lip between hers. Then she nips me.

  “And you’re naughty,” I tell her while her eyes gleam in the dim light of my room. My headache forgotten, I press my back to the headboard while Dolores’s eyes track my bare chest, fully on display for her. I push down the sheet to reveal red boxer briefs and pat my lap. “You’ve been very naughty, and Santa wants to hear all about it.”

  She laughs outright until I reach around her back and awkwardly drag her over me.

  “I’m going to crush your legs,” she jokes, but I’ll have no body shaming here. I set her fine ass up close to the firm bulge straining behind the cotton material. With her back to my chest, I force her legs to straddle mine as she faces away from me. She’s wearing a T-shirt of mine, and my hands work up her inner thighs as I speak.

  “Now, tell Santa all the ways you’ve been a bad girl.”

  “I think I’m supposed to tell Santa how I’ve been a good girl,” she corrects me until I reach the cotton over her sex. My fingers rest against the damp heat.

  “Such a good girl,” I moan and then dip a finger under the seam and into her. She bucks back, her hands flailing for purchase somewhere. “Lean forward.” With her thighs splayed open, her hands fall to my knees, which I bend to force her legs to spread even wider. We’re a mix of angled legs as I add another finger to her center.

  “On second thought, lean back,” I mutter, wanting the weight of her body against my chest. With my free hand, I move her hair over one shoulder and nibble at her neck while I tease her sex. “Good girl.”

  She purrs, and the sound spurs me to add a third finger. Dolores stretches and draws me into her, and a drop of moisture gathers on my briefs. I work her with three digits before my dick gets his turn. Releasing her, I hold my fingers up, and Dolores reaches for my wrist. She tugs my fingers to her mouth and opens to suck them.

  “Sweet fuck,” I mutter, pressing at her back to shift her forward. I wrestle with my briefs until Dolores releases my fingers and adjusts herself to tug the material down the remainder of my legs. She shifts herself to remove her underwear. The separation between us is brief, and I quickly scoop her under her armpits again, dragging her back to reposition her how she sat before. The seam of her ass splits and surrounds my dick.

  “Fuck,” I hiss. This woman. What is she doing to me? We need lube for her to slip up and down my length in this position, and while I’d love to experiment with her ass and some play, I want my Santa fantasy. I tip her hips, and she leans forward, bracing her hands between my thighs, which are holding hers open wide once again. She reaches under her and guides me to slick folds and then falls back to draw me into her.

  A string of fucks murmurs from my lips. She’s in the reverse cowgirl position, taking the lead to ride me, and my eyes might cross with the pleasure this angle gives.

  “So naughty. So stunning,” I gasp through ragged breaths as she bounces up and down my dick. With her ass between us, I watch it lift and lower while she swallows me into her. My hand slides down her spine until my palm flattens at the base. I stretch my thumb to rest at another entrance. She stiffens but continues to rock over me. “Ever have anyone back here?”

  “Not my thing,” she stutters as she draws up and then plunges back down. Her pace increases. I won’t push her, but my thumb applies pressure to the puckered opening. Her breath hitches before she speaks in a strangled tone. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you like this?” My voice lowers, watching her ass move and clench as her body jostles up and over me.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  I simply hold my position, teasing but not forcing. The increase in her rhythm tells me she might like the hint at her back door—a little excitement from the unfamiliar—but I lose my concentration when she touches herself while she rides me and comes undone in record time.

  “Santa’s not done with you yet,” I warn, tossing her forward so she lands on her front. I crawl over her and lift her hips. Instantly missing her warm wetness, I slam into her. Another litany of curses scrolls through my head, mixing with audible grunts and skin-slapping thrusts as I lose myself in her again and again and again.

  “One more, stunner,” I demand, slipping my fingers to her front, tugging and flicking at the nub to set her off. She presses back at me, hinting she’s there, and then she stills, curling her back like a stretching cat. Fuck. I come so hard I see stars dancing over her body. My dick pulses and pitches and jets an unending release.

  “God, I needed that,” I mumble into her back, my forehead resting on her shoulder. She chuckles with me inside her.

  “Me too.” The air turns serious, heavy with the weight of more to be said. Then I realize I’m bare inside her.

  “Dolores,” I groan. “I wasn’t wearing a condom. Again.” The comment should crush our moment, but Dolores simply collapses to the mattress, and I follow as I can’t seem to pull myself free of her yet.

  “Well, Santa, it seems you’ve been a bad boy yourself. How does Santa punish himself for misbehaving?” She giggles into the mattress under her head, and I quickly pull out of her. I smack her plump backside, and she lifts the upper half of her body to look at me over her shoulder.

  Dear Santa, please let me keep her. Keep me on the bad boy list if this woman will continue to look at me like she is at this moment. Satiated. Complete. Happy.

  How would I live without her if she decided to leave?

  “Santa’s always good,” I mock, and her eyes sparkle as she stares back at me. Her hair drapes over her head like a freshly fucked sex kitten.

  “So good,” she purrs, and I’ll take lumps of coal in my stocking forever to hear this sound from her again.

  23


  My Fair Lady

  [Dolores]

  The next day, a car picks me up and takes me to Le Couturier, a quaint, high-end dress shop off Rodeo Drive. Michel, which sounds like Michelle, is the woman I’m to meet, and I wonder if she’s another someone who might have slept with Garrett. He certainly is well acquainted with personal shoppers and salon stylists. With a kiss to each cheek, Michel leads me into a back room where I stand on a circular platform.

  “Mr. Fox has asked me to dress you.” Her accent is as rich as her name, and I’m beginning to feel a little outside myself just as I did the day I was pampered at the salon. I don’t know who I am in these fancy places, and I’m not used to being handled by others. Hair. Makeup. Dressmaker. It’s all foreign to me.

  “Hair down or up?” she questions, and I look at myself in the mirror. It’s down today, but I don’t know how I’ll wear my hair the day of the Christmas-themed event, as Garrett called it. Just call a spade a spade and say Christmas party. But something tells me, with the type of dress required, this is more than some holiday office get-together. Garrett will be arranging hair and makeup appointments for me at Denton’s place on Saturday afternoon. I’m certain that costs a pretty penny.

  He’s done so much for me. A bit of My Fair Lady meets Pretty Woman. A new me. A real lady. The clothes. The dance lessons. The weekend wine tasting. My thoughts drift to the diner and how much I miss the place and the woman I was. Not the tired, strung-too-thin, be-responsible-for-it-all person, but the woman in charge of her own business. The independent woman who took care of herself. It’s been nice to have someone else meet my needs, and Garrett certainly does that in the bedroom department, but what am I doing for him?

  I stare at my too-wide eyes as the designer decides for herself that my hair should be half up and half down. She gives it a messy look with a hairclip on top of my head and then steps back for the clothing rod holding three sample dresses. The first is long, black, and glittery with spaghetti straps and a slit up the side. It’s form-fitting and elegant, but I don’t feel quite right in it. It screams red carpet and trophy wife, which I’m clearly not. The second comes to my neck in a halter cut with nude fabric to the top of my breasts. It emphasizes my arms, which shouldn’t be the focus as I don’t have any definition in them. It isn’t flattering. When the final dress is removed from the bag, I can’t get a sense of it. It’s lace from waist to neck with a nude inlay bodice. I’m thinking I’m too busty for the thing, not to mention the full skirt that cuts across the simple black silk with a rather revealing stretch of the fabric. It’s more than a subtle slit up the side panel but a fully exposed left leg.