by Tessa Layne
And she’s right. I want her mouth on my cock in the worst way. She licks at me, all the while talking smack about Wham, and my poor taste in music, and when I think I can’t take it anymore, I pull her up to straddle me, and thrust into her slick channel with everything I have. Only this time, I pull her against my chest, and using an old self-defense move, I roll us so that she’s on her back and I’m on top, sinking into her. “You’re not the only one with tricks up your sleeve, angel,” I growl before taking her mouth in a claiming kiss. She meets me thrust for thrust, groaning into my mouth as I fuck her hard and fast, then slow, then thrusting and rocking so that when I pull out my cock slides against her clit, giving her the friction I know she craves.
And the best part? She’s grinning from ear to ear when I break the kiss long enough to look down at her. Her pupils are blown, so that her eyes are practically black, and for a moment, I pause, because I just have to look at her, commit her complete and total enjoyment to memory. “I love you too, Nico,” she whispers so quietly, I almost miss it. Something weird and achy throbs below my sternum, spreading across my chest. It’s tight and hot, and it grows as we lie tangled together, and I begin to slide home. And as her breath becomes sharper, shorter, and mine joins hers, we climax together in a chorus of cries and laughs, and the thing in my chest releases and I’m filled with the most incredible sense of lightness, of rightness, of… peace.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nico
Something’s up with Dec. I’ve never seen him like this, pushing himself to the brink the way he has since he’s arrived, saying barely two words to me, and virtually ignoring Alison. She’s sent us to turn compost, because she wants us out of her hair, and Declan needs something to do, because he’s driving us both crazy.
Finally, I jab my fork into the pile. I’m not a touchy-feely guy, especially where my brothers are concerned, but this shit has to stop. “Wanna talk about it?”
Dec keeps tossing manure onto the pile and turning it as if I haven’t spoken. “Nope,” he finally grunts.
Jeezus, he has it bad. But if I’ve learned one thing up here, it’s that hard work cleanses you, clears your head, helps you find perspective. “I’ve been there, you know.”
He throws down the pitchfork and turns with a glare, hands fisted. For a hot second, I think he’s gonna punch me, and instinctively I drop my fork too, ready to fend off a blow. But then the fight leaves him and he sags. I’ve never seen him look so defeated. “Yeah, I know.” He picks up his fork, and attacks the pile again.
I resume turning the pile, and soon enough we settle into a rhythm of stab, pull, toss.
“Emmaline’s mother just died of Alzheimer’s,” he says. And bit by bit, as we work together, the story comes out. There’s no doubt about it, my brother the player is nursing a broken heart, and I have no idea how to help him. Because fuck, Veronica humiliated me, but I didn’t love her. And now that I have something to compare it to with Alison, something that… means something to me, I can see even more clearly that I was more interested in sticking it to Jason than I was about loving Veronica. And I guess that makes me the worst kind of asshole. There must be a special place in the circles of hell for men that marry someone out of spite, for revenge.
Declan pauses from his storytelling. “This is off-topic, but have you been talking to Veronica lately?”
“Fuck, no,” I scoff. “If I never speak to her again it will be too soon.”
“So you have no idea why she might be calling?”
I jab my fork in the shrinking pile, stomach clenching. “She’s calling you?” I shake my head. “She probably saw the article in Winemaker’s monthly.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But I was surprised, because last I heard she was holed up in Senator Whelan’s house in Malibu.”
“Well it’s no longer my fucking problem, I’ve moved on.”
“Oh?” There’s weight in Declan’s voice, and curiosity. “You got a rebound thing going?”
I freeze, knuckles white on the handle. I’m not ready to take this thing with Alison public. Especially not with Dec. But then again, there’s going to be speculation because of the pictures in Winemaker’s Monthly. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. But I still lie to my brother. “Nah.” And then I change the subject.
We finish the pile and Declan heads back to his makeshift setup in the unfinished farmhouse. So far, he hasn’t commented on the fact that I’m sharing space with Alison. As far as he’s concerned, I’m still sleeping on the couch. Alison finds me in the barn, putting away the tools. “Walk the lots with me? I need to check the sugars.”
I turn with a grin, because in addition to checking the sugars, it’s code for sneaking in some naughty time at the far corner of the lot. She’s wearing her work overalls and a new sports bra- one with cups. I trace a finger along the strap and down, skimming the tops of her breasts. “This new?”
She flicks up her brows and gives me a naughty smirk. “Easier access.” She winks and turns, swinging her hips with more sass than usual. My cock thickens in anticipation, because hell, yes. She takes her damn time checking the Chardonnay, torturing me with sideways glances, brushing my ass, and generally teasing me to a state of frustrated arousal, dancing out of range whenever I reach for her. She finally lets me catch her when we reach a picnic table halfway through the Cabernet lots. “Some might call you a cock tease,” I growl pulling her in for a kiss. She tastes of tannic grapes, but it’s the sweet notes underneath that drive me wild, that make me never want to stop kissing her.
She unsnaps the straps of her overalls, and they fall to her hips. I follow suit, dropping my jeans. We have vineyard quickies down to a science, and while they’re never the same, we can’t risk getting caught. This time, she turns and bends over the table, and I step behind her, yanking her overalls past her hips, revealing a black lace thong. “Someone’s been shopping online,” I murmur, palming the soft flesh of her ass and slipping my hand between her thighs. As always, she’s soaking and ready. I slip a finger, then two, inside her, pumping as she grinds into me. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning,” she confesses.
“This too?” I ask as I slide my fingers against her clit. My cock is like steel, and impatient to get in on the action. “I love seeing you like this, all worked up, and with sexy underwear underneath your work clothes.”
She looks back over her shoulder with a wide smile, and I think I fall a little harder for her. I push down my boxer briefs. “Spread your legs a little wider, angel.”
She does so with a shimmy. And I step up, sliding her thong to the side and nudging into her opening, then thrusting balls deep in one move. She moves forward with a grunt, then pushes back against me. All concern for my brother, for my future, for whatever penance I still must pay to the universe, leaves my mind. There’s only us, and this incredible heat. I bend over her and slide my arm around her front, caressing her soft belly, then dragging my hand lower to her slick, bare pussylips. Her clit is hard, and she lets out a needy moan when I stroke it.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” I murmur into her ear as I stroke in and out of her tight pussy. “In the fresh air. We should fuck outside every day.”
“We do,” she says with a laugh, then a moan as I shift my angle. “Yes, like that.” I bring my other hand to her belly, and press. She lets out a long, low moan. “I’m close, Nico.”
Just hearing her say that makes my balls tighten, knowing that when she squeezes around my shaft, I’ll be lost. I thrust harder, press harder, and she shatters with a cry, contracting around me, squeezing me until my vision spots. I cry out driving into her, as deep as she’ll take me, my come releasing in hot spurts, until I’m empty, and I’ve marked the inside of her. And in some primal, caveman part of my brain, I wish that we were making babies. The thought shocks me sober, the warm buzz of my orgasm dissipating. I pull out, and we clean ourselves up as best we can, knowing there’s a shower in our future.
Ali
son cocks her head at me, concern flashing in her eyes. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Everything’s great.”
“Okay, so you won’t mind if I finish up on my own and I send you down to the bottom of the lot to mend a section of fence?”
“Wait, so you were just buttering me up for a job you know I hate?”
Her eyes twinkle. “Maybe. You saying it’s too much for you?” She snaps her overalls back into place.
“I’m gonna spank your ass when we get into the shower,” I call after her.
She wiggles said ass, and looks back over her shoulder with a saucy grin. “Promise?”
Declan finds me down at the fence, imagining exactly how I plan to punish Alison in the shower. “I need you to run this into town,” he says brusquely, holding out a thick envelope.
“Something wrong with your legs?” He could have driven into town in the time it probably took him to hike down here.
“I’m waiting for delivery of the harvesting bins.”
He’s full of shit. I know for a fact they’re not due to show up until tomorrow. And since when has he taken an interest in the daily runnings of the vineyard. But then I catch a glimpse of who the letter’s addressed to- Emmaline Andersson. I know exactly what’s going on, and I’m just enough of an asshole to capitalize on it. “Fine, sure. I’ll take it. But it’ll cost you.”
“Anything.”
I smother a laugh. He’s fucking desperate to not go to town. “Dinner for two at French Laundry,” I deadpan.
He blinks. Then blinks again. “That’s a thousand bucks, easy.”
I shrug and turn back to the fence. “Suit yourself.” I give him thirty seconds before he buckles.
He caves in ten. “Okay, fine. But I want to know who your date is.”
“Oh, she’s not a date,” I deny, although that’s the furthest thing from the truth.
“Who is it, then?”
“Alison.”
“Alison,” he parrots, surprise flashing across his face.
Now, I’m pissed. “She’s been working her ass off, and you’ve hardly noticed.” He’s been so depressed, he hasn’t noticed the lines of tension around her eyes and mouth, the knots in her shoulders that no number of orgasms seem to relax.
“I’ve noticed,” he backpedals. “And besides, I’m paying her a fortune.”
I glare. “Can’t you see she’s exhausted? Or are you too wrapped up in your grief to notice?”
Declan sags, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, fine. Take her to dinner. And tell her thanks.”
God, is this the way I was when I was helping dad run things? A heartless fuck? Yes, the dark voice of my conscience answers. “Why don’t you tell her that,” I snap, vowing to do a better job of appreciating people.
“Fine, I will.” He snaps back, muttering asshole under his breath.
His insult catches me by surprise, and I let out a laugh. “Yep. I am. What’re you gonna do about it?” I promise to drop the letter in the four o’clock mail, and finish repairing the fence.
I find Alison back in the tiny office at the far corner of the crushing pad. I pause in the doorway, watching her work. She hums under her breath as she taps at the keys, then leans forward to study something, hand drifting to the knot that won’t leave her neck. She’s pushing herself too hard. But I also get why she’s doing it, and I wish there was more I could do to help.
“I’m taking you to dinner.”
She squeaks and turns around, startled.
“French Laundry. Be ready at six.” I turn and head for the trailer and the shower that’s calling my name. Tonight, I’m going to show Alison just how special she is.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alison
The rest of the day crawls by. It doesn’t help that I glance at the time every three-and-a-half minutes. French Laundry? People don’t just go there on a whim. It takes weeks, usually months to get a reservation. How long has Nico been planning this?
My heart sinks. Maybe he already had reservations. But still, I reassure myself, he’s taking me. He could have just canceled the reservations. So I let myself go back to thinking that yeah, this is a really big deal. And what am I going to wear? I immediately land on the coral colored vee neck wrap around dress I bought on a whim a few weeks ago when I binge purchased new panties and non-uniboob sports bras. Nico mentioned he wanted me to wear my hot pink ankle boots with a skirt, and this dress will work perfectly. But what about shapewear? Fuck. There’s no denying, I’m… lumpy. I’ve got dimples on my thighs and ass, and gentle rolls on my belly. And while I can get away with leggings and long, colorful tunics, and jeans with a healthy percentage of spandex, there’s no hiding those flaws under a body-skimming wrap dress without shapewear. I have just the thing, too- a pale pink pinup girl thing with a sheer bra and lace covering the spandex panels, but it’s unwieldy. I smirk, Nico will just have to work for his treasure if he was serious about wrapping my ankles around his neck.
At four, I can’t stand it anymore. I slam my laptop shut, just as my phone rings. Kimmie’s picture lights up the screen. Talking to her will be just the distraction I need. “Hey sis,” I answer brightly.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accuses without even a ‘how are you?’
“I’m doing great, actually. Thanks for asking.”
She cuts right to the chase. “You’re still with him, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.”
She’s not wrong. “I promise, he’s not like what he was. He’s thoughtful, and he makes me laugh.” And holy shit, the sex.
“He’s bamboozled you. You’re thinking with sex hormones. Have you thought about how he’s going to react when you finally ‘fess up? Because if you keep seeing him, you’re going to have to.”
I hate it when she goes all big-sister on me. I love it, too. “Why should I have to tell him? Nobody else knows.”
“Katie-bug-”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Okay, fine. But that’s my point- your past is part of who you are. Do you honestly think you can hide that from someone you have a serious relationship with?”
“Tommy didn’t know,” I say stubbornly.
“Tommy was a shit who didn’t deserve you.”
“But that’s not why I didn’t tell him. Don’t you understand, Kimmie? My life’s not an open book the way yours is. I don’t want anyone to know how or who I was, and I wish you’d all stop talking about it.” My parents, at least, try not to speak of it much, but they won’t remove the pictures of me from then. I can still hear the last conversation I had about that with my mom. I love all of you sweetie, no matter what you used to look like. I’m proud of you. Always. And I appreciate that, I do. But all I see is shame, pain, and profound unhappiness when I look at the younger version of myself, and I can’t bear it.
“Okaaayyy,” she answers dubiously. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, honey.”
“I won’t. And it’s not like this is forever,” I rush to reassure her. “We both know this is just a thing.” A thing I’m starting to wish won’t have an end date. Because why would you end something with someone you love? For a second, my hopes rise. Maybe that’s why he’s bringing me to dinner someplace fancy? I know there’s not a ring in my future, but French Laundry is the place where those kinds of discussions take place.
“If you’re sure,” she says, voice still filled with concern.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, and now I have some good news.”
“Oh?”
“I’m being sent to LA for a six-month project starting the week before Thanksgiving.”
I squeal into the phone. I haven’t seen my sister in over a year. “I’ll come down every weekend during the off-season,” I promise. “We’ll have so much fun. And I’ll come down for Thanksgiving. We can do it at the beach.” My mind fills with all the sisterly adventures we can take while she’s stateside.
“I’ll
be home for two weeks before that visiting Mom, and Dad and Hami.” Hami is my dad’s mom, who’s always lived with us, short for Halmoni, which I couldn’t say as a kid, and so it morphed into Hami. Kimmie’s always been her favorite. She was prettier and more obedient than I was. And she wasn’t fat. But I’ve made peace with that now, for the most part.
“So why don’t I plan to come home after the final harvest? We can have early Thanksgiving in Kansas City.”
“I love it. Okay, keep me posted. And sis?”
“Be careful with your heart, please?”
“I am. I promise.” I don’t know what else to say. She needs to see how Nico’s changed for herself.
I tuck my cellphone back in my pocket and head for the trailer. There, I shower and shave until I am smooth and soft all over. I apply my favorite rose-scented moisturizer, compliments of my sister, and take the time to paint both my fingers and toes. Painting my fingernails is an exercise in futility, the polish will chip the second I slide my hands into work gloves, but I’m going all out tonight. I select hot pink for my toes, and a pale pink for my nails. I straighten my hair so that it falls in a curtain down my back. I can honestly say, I’ve always liked my hair. Liked its color, the thickness, and how glossy it is. I lucked out in that department, getting more of Dad’s genes. Kimmie’s hair on the other hand, has a slight kink she’s always battling with. And it’s lighter than mine, thanks to Mom’s Polish heritage.
I struggle into my shapewear, shimmying, grunting and tugging until it’s firmly in place squeezing my softness into very structured lines. I preen in the mirror. I don’t look half-bad, and the undergarment pulls the girls high, so I’ll have a nice cleavage line going in the vee of my dress. I slip the dress over my head, adjust the waistband and tie it in a nice bow so that the tails cascade down my left hip.
I resist looking in the mirror until I’ve put on my pink ankle boots. I gasp when I finally look. I’m not girly, I’ve never been girly. The only jewelry I own is compliments of Kimmie. But I have to admit, I look gooooooood. Like, kitty-cat meow, meow good. I do a circle, checking for lines, and also admiring the figure I see in the mirror. Still too chubby for my taste, but I’m coming to terms with that. And it hasn’t been off-putting to Nico at all. I search my minimal jewelry collection and settle on a thick silver bracelet, and a pair of long skinny Swarovski crystal earrings.
