“What’s going on with you and Kyle?” I ask Michelle as she walks behind the bar to grab glasses for a new customer. She skipped out last night, closely after Kyle, and I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye or thank her for helping me.
“Nothing much, why?” She doesn’t make eye contact with me.
“Oh, come on. I’ve been here for a week, and it’s obvious even to me there’s something there.”
She pushes her braid off her shoulder and glances at me—her expression full of dejection.
“I thought so, too. Was even hopeful for it. But more and more time has passed and nothing ever changed . . . well, maybe it did last night. I don’t know.”
“What happened last night?” I lean forward, placing my elbows on the bar.
“Nothing really. It just felt like it used to. But then again, I’m probably making it more than it is.” Disappointment laces through her words.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘like it used to’?” I’ve seen the way he looks at her, and I’ve seen the up-front way he acts with Zach. I can’t imagine him not going after what he wants.
She shrugs and says, “When I first started working here, he would come in at the end of my shift and we’d sit around and talk into the night. I loved it, but little by little the time would cut shorter, until eventually he stopped coming.”
“That’s strange. He’s so flirtatious around you.” Thinking back over the last couple of days, I’ve seen him wink at her at least a half dozen times.
“I know, right? Well, I’m glad you see it, too. I was starting to wonder if I was reading more into it than there was.”
“I don’t think so, and last night, he all but made it clear you were his.” Kyle’s expression when he joined us outside was not only territorial but also determined. Once he sat next to Michelle, he stole all her attention.
“But I’m not.”
“Are you sure about that?” The question lingers around us as we stare at each other.
Another couple comes in and she moves down the bar to greet them placing fresh glasses in front of everyone. She smiles warmly and instantly has them feeling relaxed and welcome; that’s part of her allure. Michelle is beautiful, kind, and smart, I really don’t see what the problem is.
“So, tell me about last night?” I ask when she comes back to refill my wine glass for me.
She lets out a sigh and leans over the bar so she’s a bit closer to me. “He heard me leave right after him and offered to drive me back to the manor to get my car. We talked for a little bit on the drive, and then he said good night.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep.” She pinches her lips together.
“That’s so strange.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why haven’t you made the first move?”
She pauses to think about her answer. “I don’t know, he’s older than me.”
“So?” My eyebrows rise in question.
“So, I guess I’m a little bit old fashioned.” She squares off her shoulders and stands a little taller. “If he wanted to ask me out, he would have. I shouldn’t have to chase a guy to get him to show interest in me. It should be organic and mutual.”
“I agree with that, but there has to be more to it.”
“Or maybe it’s the opposite and there’s nothing, which is why he never made a move.”
I don’t understand how she could possibly think there is nothing there. It’s so clear to everyone around them, even Zach watches them. She pulls two bottles from the cooler and starts walking away.
“Michelle, I’ve seen the way he looks at you, the way he watches you, and after the way he behaved last night when he thought Jack was into you, I’m telling you, there’s something there.”
She stiffens and pauses as she thinks about what I’ve said. Quietly, she turns back to face me. “I could say the same to you.” Neither of us says anything, and then she shrugs as she moves back to the new customers to pour the next wine in the tasting flight.
I suppose she could.
Zach surprised me last night when he told me he was sorry. Then again, he surprises me every time I see him. He’s up, he’s down. He’s happy, he’s angry. He’s loud, he’s reserved . . . I have no idea what to expect, and it seems I need to add jealous to the list. Jealousy radiated off him each time he saw James talking to me, even after he kissed me senseless in my room. But he still left with the guys at the end of the night, only giving me a nod, a mumbled thanks for the dinner, and a promise to text me tomorrow about a time to meet. Which is why I’m here now, waiting for him.
Taking in a deep breath, I remind myself it’s only a few more days. Six to be exact, which is why I need to push all of these mixed emotions over a guy aside, a guy who I have no intention of seeing past this week, and focus on the assignment—and my future.
Feeling a motivated sense of focused purpose, I sit a little taller and take a sip of my delicious wine, and that’s when I notice the air at my back has heated. An earthy clean smell floats around me, and my eyelids drift shut as I soak it in. I really do love the way he smells.
Looking over my shoulder, I find Zach standing next to me with a wary expression on his face. Crossing my legs, I remind myself that I’m only here for six more days and twist on the chair to face him, wondering which version I’ll have tonight.
“How long have you been sitting here?” he asks me, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Not too long.” I eye him suspiciously. “How long have you been standing there?”
He chuckles. “Long enough.”
Moving to stand next to me and lean against the bar, the tension in his shoulders lightens as he takes his time to drink me in with those electric blue eyes of his. So much for my pep talk. Sixty seconds, that’s all it took for me to lose my sense of balance, while he remains completely calm and sure of himself. It’s as if he’s immune to the charged air between us. My heart rate picks up, butterflies have scattered, and I curse myself for having this crazy reaction to him.
Breaking the connection, I grab my glass, take a huge swallow of wine, and clear my throat. “I was ready and bored, so I came here a little early to hang out with Michelle.” I glance down the bar, she’s washing glasses, and still frowning. My heart frowns with her.
Zach makes a humming noise, pulling my eyes back to him. He looks at my glass and at the mostly empty bottle in front of me.
“Did you eat?” He sounds slightly irritated, and a giggle bursts out of me.
“Did you really just ask me that?” I shake my head at him. “Don’t you know that a chef never misses a meal?”
The muscles in his face relax and one side of his mouth tips into a grin.
“So, are we Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde today?” I ask him while leaning back in my seat, and smoothing my skirt down over my legs.
“What do you mean?” He crosses his arms over his chest, and the muscles bulge against the fabric, momentarily distracting me.
“Just want to be prepared for whatever kind of mood you’re in before we get started.”
He contemplates what I’ve said as a scowl drops into place. “It isn’t like that.”
“Oh, yes, it is.” I laugh back at him.
He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. It’s then I realize his hair is styled . . . and so are his clothes. He has on a pair of navy dress slacks, a pale blue long-sleeve button down with the sleeves rolled up, and a camel-colored belt with matching shoes. He looks delectable and insanely irresistible.
“You look nice,” I say, trying to remain composed and keep the peace. His lips mash together and then his eyes sweep down over me again.
“You do, too. But you always do,” he says softly, numbing me with the sincerity and warmth in his eyes. I manage to keep the fact that the dress and shoes I’m wearing were chosen with his reaction in mind.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the sparked tension between us veering more toward that of a yearning.
Shifting in my chair, the strap on my left shoulder slips out of place, and his eyes follow it. Taking a step closer to me, putting him right in my personal space, he raises a hand and runs his finger up my arm—from my wrist to collarbone. I watch goose bumps chase after him, and he pushes the strap back in place. His hand lingers on my shoulder—searing me with the warmth of his touch.
Trailing my eyes up his chest, the top button on his shirt is undone, and I have the strongest urge to reach out and touch the bottom of his throat. He swallows and I continue my assent, admiring the tiny details that others wouldn’t notice—the scar right above his top lip, the bump on his nose where at one point it must have been broken, and the way his eyes crinkle in the corner when he laughs and smiles—I find it all incredibly tempting and sexy.
His hand tightens on my shoulder, and his thumb slips back under the strap and traces the edge as if he now wants to take it off. Without thinking, I lean in toward him, and he does the same, his eyes latching onto my mouth. The air thickens, heats . . . electrifies. This guy is my kryptonite, and when he looks at me as if he wants me, I feel completely at his mercy. If he were to kiss me right now, here in front of his employees and these people, I would let him.
Glass shatters behind us, and we jerk away from each other.
So much for keeping strong and focused on the assignment.
Zach lets out a deep sigh, regards me with uncertain eyes, and then moves behind the bar to put some distance between us. I don’t know if he does this for me, him, or because the photographer is sitting there watching us, but either way, I’m glad he does and I hate it all at the same time.
He lines three bottles in front of me. “So, here at Wolff, we bottle four sparkling wines. Our two signature sparklings are the Queen Bee, which is a sparkling lavender honey wine, and the Farkas, a sparkling brut wine. Our other two—a sparkling brut rosé wine, and a sparkling peach wine.” He places his hands on top of the rosé and peach. “So, which do you want to start with?” he asks, looking from me to the bottles.
“Let’s start with the rosé.” I scoot forward in my seat wanting to close some of the distance between us.
His blue eyes flash to mine. “You did tell me you preferred dry wines, so this is a good place to start, but I’ll save the best for last.” He smiles, and my heart clenches as he unwraps the foil from the first bottle.
“Are you going to pop the cork?” I bat my eyes at him, pretending as if that comment could have come across as something less than innocent.
A devious grin takes over and his eyes fall half-mast, almost hooded.
“No, Shelby, I’m not going to pop the cork, I prefer to ease it out to release that whisper of smoke at the mouth of the bottle. I think it’s sexier . . . and less dangerous. Don’t you think?” He tilts his head, and his grin turns into a full-blown smile.
Oh my stars. My breath hitches, and I stare at him. “I guess so.”
“Most will tell you that sparkling wines should be kept between forty-one to forty-seven degrees, but I think a few degrees warmer is better. The colder the wine is, the more concealed the flavors are. The opposite goes for as it sits in your glass and warms, the flavors and aromas change.”
“I guess I’ve never really thought about temperature affecting flavor before. Either that, or I drink it faster than it warms.” He smiles, clearly amused.
Angling the bottle away from us, he wiggles the cork until it slides out with a hiss. The bottle smokes, and he was right, it is sexy. Still holding the cork, he twists to grab two glasses in the same hand between his free fingers, and he holds them as he pours the sparkling wine.
“Mousse is the foam on top, the bubbly.” A light pink layer of foam rises to the rim of the glass and stops. The perfect pour.
“I love the bubbles. I love when I can feel them against my lips.”
He chuckles, hands me mine, and watches my mouth as I lift the glass to take a sip.
“Mmm, it’s good.” I lick my lips, and he lets out a breath as he tears his eyes away and takes a sip from his own glass.
Holding the glass up to the light, he examines the color and then grabs a white towel behind the bar to use as a backdrop. He tilts the glass to the side, examines the bubbles, and then sets it back on the bar.
“Instead of using one grape, we actually blend a red and a white to get the pink color. The Farkas is made with the Champagne method, which means it is put through a second fermentation in the bottle where the bubbles are naturally produced until it is opened. The brut rosé and the lavender honey wine are made by the Charmat method, where the second fermentation is done in a tank, and the peach sparkling has the carbonation injected.”
“Sounds fancy,” I say, taking another sip.
He shrugs. “Not really. I would prefer them all to be done the traditional way, but time and production factors in.”
Traditional.
In many ways, this description fits him perfectly. I know there are a lot of newer techniques he could be experimenting with here on the farm, but the expression, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” seems to apply to him. From the fields to the cave, to the fermenting and the bottling, he sticks with what’s always worked, and I think that says a lot about the quality of his wines.
“I feel very girly drinking this.” I hold the glass out in front of me and twirl it, watching the bubbles race to the top.
“In general, mostly women do drink this one. It’s why it sells the best during the holidays and around Valentine’s. What do you think?” He folds his arms and lays them on the bar so he can lean toward me.
“My overall impression is that it’s dry but leaves a berry aftertaste. It isn’t super sweet, and it would pair very well with salty Southern snacks and spicy foods.”
“Salty Southern snacks?” He laughs. “Don’t you mean deep fried?” The sound of his laugh rolls over me and penetrates my skin.
“I was thinking canapés, but fried vegetables like okra sound delicious, too.” I grin back.
“I volunteer, just say when.” His expression is hopeful. Warmth that has nothing to do with alcohol floods through me.
“You haven’t tired of my food yet?” I tease.
“No,” he says very matter of fact.
“How about later this week then? I’ll invite Kyle and Michelle, too.”
If I hadn’t been watching him as closely as I was, I would have missed the flash of disappointment in his eyes at my suggestion. Then he drums his fingertips against the bar a few times while he ponders something, and then nods his head. “Okay, that sounds like a great idea.”
See. I knew I wasn’t crazy. He thinks there’s something between them as well. I glance over to Michelle, who’s laughing with the customers. Maybe my time here will be about more than just the article. I smile to myself.
Zach grabs the next bottle, and opens it quickly and efficiently as I swallow the rest of the rosé. I would drink this one again.
“Now try this one. It’s a sparkling peach muscadine.” He sets the glass in front of me and removes both rosé glasses.
I sniff it, finding it very aromatic. My mouth is flooded with peaches and mangos as I take my first sip. “Whoa, this one is sweet.” My face scrunches, and I shake my head in reaction to the taste.
“It is. It’s more of a dessert wine. We use the juice from the two fruits—grapes and peaches—and still add a little sugar.” Yeah, it’s way too sweet for me.
“This one probably makes a great sangria.” I push the glass back to him, and he moves it behind the bar. One sip is enough for me.
“It does. During tourist season over the summer, like the Fourth of July, we’ll make batches of sangria for the people wandering in during the afternoon hours. It adds to the whole ‘Georgia’ experience.”
“Well, I happen to like sangria, so I bet I’d be a fan of that. This by itself . . . not so much. Sorry.” I grimace again at the memory of the flavor.
“Why are you apologizing? I don’t expect you to like them all. If you did, I would wonder about the finesse of your palate.” I scowl at the bottle, he chuckles, and moves it behind the bar next to my glass.
“My palate is pretty accurate,” I remind him, leaning in a little closer to him. The strap on my dress slips again, he stops moving as he glances at it, and I slowly push it back in place, thoroughly enjoying the flashed heated look he gives me.
“So you’ve said,” he mumbles and reaches for the next bottle, which is the lavender honey. I have high expectations for this one. Again, he goes through the motions of opening the bottle, and I watch him, ignoring the little voice in my head that appreciates the deftness of his fingers. The flash that was there seconds ago has turned to a spark. A spark that, if given the opportunity, would burst into flames.
I swallow, and he lets out a sigh before reaching for two new glasses.
“I can’t believe you have a sparkling lavender honey wine. Not gonna lie, I’ve been waiting for days to try this.” When we tasted the whites, I looked over their tasting menu that had been lying on the bar and spotted this sparkling. It’s taken great restraint not to dive right in. I reach for the glass, but he pulls back at the last second to tease me. My eyes narrow at him, and he grins before handing it over.
“You kill me. You know you could have opened a bottle at any time,” he says, pouring his own glass.
“I know, but to keep with the spirit of the assignment, I stuck to the plan. So, is this a sparkling mead wine?” I examine the golden color of the drink.
“No, but we have produced mead wines before. This one is a cuvée, a blend of several different varietals, and we infuse the lavender honey just before we bottle it.”
“Is it sweet?” I raise the glass to look at the golden color.
“Not when it hits the palate, but you’ll be able to taste the honey notes on the back end.”
He tips his own glass toward mine, and we clink them together.
“Cheers,” he says. “Here’s to a wildly successful outcome from the magazine article.”
“Cheers to that!” I smile brightly at him. Whereas I’m certain he’s looking for a surge in sales, I’m adding another bullet point to my resume that hopefully pushes me more through the door of Food Network.
A flash from the photographer comes from my right. Zach didn’t notice, he’s too busy watching me over the rim of his glass.
Taking a sip, I’m rewarded with the perfect combination of a dry white wine and the distinct dash of honey. I really do love honey, and this sparkling wine excites me more than I can express.
“What do you think?” He’s still watching me.
“I think it’s delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it.” I’ve never tasted anything like you either.
He’s pleased at my response and as if he can read my mind, a lazy sensual smile graces his perfect lips.
“I’m glad you like it. I was hoping you would. When you leave in a few days, take a case with you.”
“I don’t need a whole case, but thank you.” I’m somewhat surprised by the generous offer, and a light blush warms my cheeks.
“Well, then, half and fill the other half with the sauvignon blanc. You seem to like that one, too.”
“I do.” He’s been paying attention.
Lowering my glass to the bar, my hands flatten over the base to hold it in place. Slowly, Zach reaches across and lays one of his hands on top of mine. His warm fingers slide between mine, linking us together as his thumb swipes back and forth.
His hand is so much larger than my own. The strength it possesses and the gentleness of the gesture blurs the lines I keep trying to draw between us.
Trailing my eyes from our hands to his face, I’m met with a heat that speaks to every cell in my body. His eyes show a complete contrast to the gentleness in his hands, and this is a need I understand . . . this need I want.
Reluctantly, I glance toward the photographer sitting off in the corner with his camera pointed right at us. Zach’s eyes follow, pause for a second, and then return to mine. When his brows drop with annoyance, I realize he’d forgotten that we have an audience.
“The last one we need is in the cellar. Walk down with me, and we’ll drink it there.” He gestures to the door, and I nod in agreement before moving to the door to watch him. He says something to Michelle, which makes her and the guests close enough to hear smile. If I had to guess, they’re all about to get some free drinks thanks to the open bottles sitting on the bar. Then he moves to the photographer, who’s sitting a few feet away from where I stand. “We’re all done, but feel free to stick around or take off, it’s up to you.”
His face lights up. “Really? That’s great. I think I’ll take off, so thanks.” He grabs his bag and starts packing his gear. Zach gives him a pat on the shoulder and then slips his hand into mine. Leading me through the right wing, we pass the library and head for the cellar stairs.
The buzz and the sounds from the tasting room begin to drift away, while the echo of our steps bounce around the hall. As we descend down into the cellar, the temperature drops, and suddenly I’m wishing for a sweater and not this tiny dress.
Zach turns a knob, and the muted glow from the chandeliers brightens the room.
“I’m not sure if I told you this before, but it’s beautiful down here.” I trail my eyes over the photos that line one wall and show the history of the vineyard. There are several with Zach as a kid, he was good-looking then, too. I’m not surprised.
He chuckles and heads into a side alcove where large coolers are built into the wall to grab the brut.
“Thanks, although, I can’t take credit for it. My mother does all of the decorating around here.”
As he walks back toward me, my eyes drift down over the length of him, admiring the way his clothes are perfectly tailored to his body. His steps never falter, but his free hand curls into a fist—at my blatant perusal.
“Well, she did an amazing job.”
“Yeah, she did.” His voice is a little deeper, and inwardly, I smile at the effect my eyes are having on him.
When he gets close enough, he sets the bottle on the high-top table next to me and opens it, the hiss lingering in the air. Once again, he pours the perfect amount into the glass—a single crystal flute glass—before he hands it to me, and his fingers brush against mine. His eyes flare, and a thrill runs up my arm at the contact. Why do I love it so much when he touches me?
Pulling away, I bring the glass to my lips and pause. His eyes roam over my face, glance at my mouth, and then he breaks away, running his hand through his hair and around to his neck. The blue in his eyes is darker down here; I want them to be darker because of me.
The wine has effervescence and a lightness that wasn’t in the three upstairs. This wine is completely different, sensational, and in a league all on its own.
“Wow, this is incredible,” I say between sips.
He gives me a closed-mouth smile and nods his head. He knows it’s good.
Picking up the bottle, I look at the label and then him: Farkas, brut, blanc de blanc. It’s dry with no hint of sweetness, even though a touch of sugar is added, and it’s made entirely of white grapes.
“Farkas means ‘wolf’ in Hungarian,” he answers the question before I ask it.
“That’s your ancestor’s name?”
He nods his head. “When the wine industry took off again, my grandfather thought it would be better if we changed our name to a more recognizable one. My father agreed, so they filed the paperwork. This was about a year before he met my mother.
“So, this is fairly new change?” I drink a little more, and he tops off my glass.
“I guess you could say that.”
I look him over from head to toe, and he shifts his weight to lean against the table. “You don’t look like a Farkas.”
He chuckles. “Zachary Farkas?” He taps his chin for a few seconds as if he’s thinking about it. “Yeah, no.”
A laugh busts out of me, and he smiles in response.
“I like it when you laugh.” His dark eyes fall to my mouth. “I like it a lot,” he whispers.
My smile slips, and my breath catches as he steps closer. My head tilts back to look at him and every muscle freezes. We’re close enough to be touching, but we’re not, and my fingers tighten around my glass. He notices and gently lifts the glass away.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t blink.
All my back-and-forth indecision falls away, and now my reasons for staying away from him seem so insignificant. I know the difference between right and wrong, and what I should and shouldn’t do . . . but right here, right now in this moment, under his smoldering gaze, I don’t care.
Everything about this guy screams out to me: from the color of his hair and eyes, to the way he confidently carries himself, to his mind and how knowledgeable he is about the wine business—his business. The attraction I feel for him is so strong that the only thing I want to do is give in to it. Give in to him.
He needs to touch me, and he needs to touch me now.
Reaching a hand out, he lightly runs it down my arm until it lands on my hip. Warm fingertips sink through the fabric, squeeze me, and then push so I step backward and bump into the large table in the center of the room. Grabbing on to my waist, he picks me up and puts me on the table. The strap on my dress falls again, only this time instead of correcting it, he slips the other one off too and drags his warm fingertips across the skin of my chest.
“You are so beautiful,” he says, stepping between my legs.
A few pieces of his hair fall across his forehead, and slowly and gently, I brush them away and then trace the line of his face and down his jaw.
Dipping his head, his cheek rubs against mine as my hands slowly travel up his hard chest. Such a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips as he places them on my neck.
The warmth of his body, the clean earthy smell of his skin, I’m surrounded and drowning in that feeling that only comes from a man—this man. This man who now seems to be fighting the same battle I am.
Do we, or don’t we?
Pressing his hips into mine, he groans at the way we fit together, and I moan at the contact of him against me. My legs pull him closer, and I grab on to his waist as his hands slide in my hair, and fist so tightly I gasp.
Forcing my head back, he stares down at my lips. “God, you drive me insane with that mouth of yours, from the things you say to the way you drink my wines. Why do I find your lips wrapped around one of my wine glasses so incredibly sexy?”
My lips part and a slow breath leaves me.
He groans again, and I feel it against my chest. “All night . . . no, all week I’ve been infatuated with these,” he leans forward, bites my bottom lip and sucks it gently before letting it go. “And knowing what you taste like, it’s been driving me crazy.”
“Is this why you brought us down here?” My words are breathless and evident of desire.
His eyes find mine, blue eyes that are even darker than before, and there’s no hesitation. “Yes.” Closing the distance, his lips collide with mine.
Honey, warm honey, that’s what he tastes like as his tongue dances with mine—over and over, around and around.
Shutting off the questions and the confusion of our situation, I give in to all of my senses that are demanding I allow this to happen, and I let go. I throw myself into this kiss, his kiss, the hottest kiss I’ve ever been given.
His teeth clamp down just like the muscles in my stomach as they repeatedly bite and hold on, wanting to mark me. His warm, full lips elicit shivers as they drag across my cheek, under my ear, and down my neck. He wastes no time exploring me with his mouth, and all I can do is hold on for the ride.
Dragging his hands around my neck and to my chest, he pushes until I’m lying on the table in front of him with my legs wrapped around his hips. His eyes drink me in as want pours off him and he runs a hand down my chest between my breasts, over my stomach, and to my waist. I pull him closer with my legs, and he leans over me. He feels so good pressed into me that every pulse point in my body thumps hard with excitement.
His fingers on one hand sink back into my hair, and tilting my head he runs his tongue down my neck and across my chest to the edge of my dress. His blue eyes flash to mine once before his mouth returns to my skin, tasting it, devouring it, while his other hand moves up my thigh and dips under my dress to where I’m most anxious for it.
He pauses, hot air rushing out against my skin as his fingers wrap around and grasp my underwear.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper in his ear, teasing him and pleading at the same time.
I hear him inhale sharply, and the gaze I’m met with as he lifts his head and his eyes find mine, steals my next breath. That spark from earlier bursts into flames. The hottest part of the flame is blue, just like his eyes, the place of complete combustion. I gasp at the heat he’s searing me with.
Challenge accepted.
He steps back, forcing me to unhook my ankles as one hand drags down my body feeling each curve, and the other pulls the small scrap of lace from under my dress and drops it onto the floor. Feeling an urgency to not waste any time, I sit up, unbuckle his belt, and make quick work of his pants. They slide down his legs as my thumbs dip inside his boxer briefs and drag them down his thighs to join his pants.
We both know where this is headed and we both want it. He moves back between my legs, hovers over me, and my heart speeds up. His hands cage in my head as he looks at me and I look at him. I see determination and drive. I see lust, pure unadulterated lust mixed with a little awe. I see him. A man who was my enemy and is now about to be my lover.
“Zach . . .” I whisper, sliding my hands up under his shirt wanting and needing to feel more.
“Shelby . . .” he whispers, huskily, and my hands tremble against him. With that his mouth slams down on mine, and I arch up to get as close as I can, giving him everything I have. His hand finds me as I find him and together we pause at the sensation of being touched by someone else. He tucks his head into my neck and groans as I run my hand up and down the length of him. He feels so hot compared to the air in this room, and I want this, I want him.
Gently, I pull and guide him until he removes his fingers and brushes against me.
“Pill?” he whispers as he drags his lips across my face and back to my lips.
“Yes.” It’s barely a breath as I exhale, but he catches it and kisses me for what feels like an eternity.
Resting his forehead against mine, his fingertips move to my hips and squeeze to almost the point of pain, to hold me in place and then he fully enters me in one move. The force of his hips, the fullness, the weight of his body all hit me at once, and I drown in the sensations.
Slowly, he pulls back out. My breath catches, and my body arches underneath him, chasing after his.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, moving his lips down my neck and to the swell of my breasts peeking out from under the edge of my dress.
“Yes.” A moan slips through my lips as he pushes back in, taking us both to a place of complete bliss. Wrapping my legs tighter around his waist, I want to close all the space between us and feel every inch of him—from head to toe.
He moves his hips into mine, alternating between hard and fast to slow and deep. Never have I completely given over all of me like I am to him in this moment. And I want it. I want it all. Anything and everything he can give me, I’m going to take it.
Threading my fingers through his hair, his lips work their way across my collarbone, back up my neck and to my mouth. His tongue explores every inch of my mouth and moves in time with his body. I am completely consumed by him and my legs start to shake.
Standing up, Zach’s hands run from my shoulders over my breasts and down my thighs. Pushing the skirt of my dress up higher, he watches as he moves in and out of me and repositions my legs so they aren’t around his back but tucked up under each arm.
Just seeing the way his hair falls across his forehead, the color high on his cheeks, his half-lidded eyes, and his swollen lips, sensations begin to prick down my spine. The sound of his labored breathing, the way his hips fit into mine, and the feeling of him losing his self-control has me climbing and climbing. The last week and a half, the attraction, the buildup, and the urgency to have one another carries me to the top of the cliff. Teetering on the edge, my eyelids slip shut as I mentally spread my arms wide, and together we welcome the free fall. Heart soaring, adrenaline racing, indescribable pleasure.
Panting, Zach falls forward and braces his forearms on the table on either side of my head before tucking his face into the crook of my neck. Sweat from his forehead makes my skin damp, and his lips part as he breathes heavily. Running my hand through his hair, I wait as he slowly relaxes his weight against me. I realize I could lie like this with him for an endless amount of time, but as our heartbeats slow, the coolness in the air descends. I shiver underneath him, and he stiffens as if he’s suddenly lying on a bed of nails instead of me.
Propping himself up with one hand, he stares down. Blue eyes are still dark. Only instead of the heated flame, they are stormy and cold as they travel all over my face, taking in detail after detail. In many ways, this direct stare feels more intimate than what we just did. He’s searching for something, I don’t know what, and I don’t think he does, either, but I don’t feel that tender connection that should come after a person so freely gives themselves to another. I feel agitation and affliction. Uneasiness slips in, and I close my eyes so he can’t see how he’s making me feel.
Vulnerable.
He slips from my hold and yanks his pants, which are still gathered around his ankles, up as I fix my dress. The walls he’s thrown up to close off his emotions make me feel self-conscious, and instead of basking in the afterglow and this new place we’ve found ourselves in, I feel foolish.
“Shit. What was I thinking?” His voice is low, monotone, and cool.
What?
Embarrassment. Humiliation. Horror. There isn’t a single word to describe how he just made me feel, all of them crash down on me.
I hop off the table and smooth down my dress. “You weren’t. Just like me.”
He flinches and his eyes jerk to mine. “I didn’t mean to say that aloud.” But yet he doesn’t apologize or retract it. Instead, he takes another step back, putting a distance between us that I thought had been removed.
I feel like this was a one-night stand with a stranger, and I don’t like it or understand it. We went from this incredibly intimate moment to him shutting me out. Staring at him, another unwanted feeling takes over and I feel used—something I swore I’d never let happen to me—but a larger part of me is confused. It takes two to make these moments happen, and I know I wasn’t in it alone.
Quietly, he watches me as he tucks his shirt back into his pants, zips, buttons them, and fastens his belt. Heat blooms against my chest and up my neck. I now know what’s under his clothes, how he tastes and moves, and it’s going to make this even harder for me. I know this isn’t going anywhere, but I allowed my heart to invest even when I knew better. So, watching his mood and words turn icy is crushing.
Tearing my eyes away from his belt, I find my underwear on the floor and grab them, fisting them into a tight ball in my hand. Zach runs his hand through his hair and lets out a deep breath before pinning me with his remorseful eyes.
“Shelby.”
“Don’t, Zach.” I put up a hand to stop him. I can’t handle it if he makes another passive comment like this shouldn’t have happened or this was a mistake. “It’s fine.” I mean, he did bring us down here. He admitted that he knew what was going to happen, or at least what I guess he was hoping would happen.
His brows pull low over his eyes as he regards me, and he tucks his hands into his pockets.
I never thought we were going to ride off into the sunset together, but I did think we’d moved past the split personalities. Just like that, he switched on me again, and my heart feels bruised. This reaction from him hurts, and my arms instinctively wrap around me. But then again, this is my fault. There’s a reason why I have my rules and instead of following them, I broke two of them. I mixed business with pleasure and opened my heart.
“Thanks for the tasting.” With that, I turn to head for the door before he sees through the mask of indifference I’ve put on.
“Shelby . . .” he says again, there’s concern in his voice, but I shake my head and force myself to walk calmly up the steps. Nothing good will come from whatever I forced him to leave unsaid.