If I Were You
Page 27
“Anything?”
I nod stiffly. “Even when I hated him for it.”
“Are we talking sex, Sara?”
I let my eyes shut, trying to make my suddenly thick breath leave my lungs. “Everything.”
“So the answer is yes. He made you do things you didn’t want to do.” It’s not a question.
My lashes snap open. “Because it was him and he treated me like I was his property put on this earth for his personal satisfaction.”
He studies me, his expression impassive, his features carved in stone. “And how do I make you feel?”
“Alive,” I whisper without hesitation. “You make me feel alive.”
A warm blanket of awareness wraps around us. “As you do me, Sara.”
Chris’s unexpected confession does funny things to my stomach. I make him feel alive?
“Your food has arrived,” the waiter announces in a far too efficient display of good, poorly-timed, service.
My salad, which is the size of Texas, is placed in front of me, and then the waiter sets down Chris’s burger. I sip my wine and the chill helps calm the heat burning through my body.
“They have an impressive wine list here at the hotel,” Chris comments. “And they have a wine educator on staff. If you want, I can arrange for her to spend some time with you in the morning?”
“I’d like that,” I say, aware of how hard he is trying to show support for my job. It matters, I think again. Chris keeps doing things that matter.
We dig into our food and he launches into some interesting wine facts about the region and I am far more interested in wine than I was when I was simply learning names and wineries.
“Part of understanding wine is understanding the regions where it’s produced. Italian wine is so revered because of the soil and the climate. Napa is one of the few places that can compete in those arenas, at least in my opinion. The climate here is classified as “Mediterranean”. Only 2% of the earth’s surface is Mediterranean. Add summers and mild winters, and grapes grow all year long.”
“It allows the grapes to grow but does it change the flavor?”
“Absolutely. Ten million years ago, the collision of the techtonic plates created the mountains and terrain here, along with a multitude of volcanic eruptions. The result is over one hundred varieties of soil and each lends a different flavor and texture to the product produced.”
Impressed with his knowledge, I ask a lot of questions as we eat. “How do you know so much about wine?”
There is a slight crackle to the air, a subtle tension. “My father was a connoisseur of wine to an extreme and as you’ve notice, despite my preferences otherwise, wine and art meld together quite frequently.”
His father. I sense tension in him when his father is brought up and I’m fairly certain he is also why Chris prefers beer over wine.
“Your car has arrived, Mr. Merit,” the waiter announces, appearing by our table.
“We’ll be right out,” Chris replies. “Charge the room for the tab.”
I’m surprised by this news. “You aren’t driving?”
“Easier to enjoy the wine with a sober driver to drive us back to the room.” Chris pushes to his feet and walks over to me, pulling my chair out and helping me to my feet. Suddenly, I am pressed against him, his hand molding me to his body, and he adds softly, “Easier to enjoy you.”
***
We step outside and I am reminded of how two hours of travel can drastically impact the weather. Where San Francisco has the chilly late August wind off the ocean, Calistoga, which is the Napa region we are in, does not.
A limo is parked in front of the doorway and it doesn’t surprise me to learn it’s for us. While I’ve never attended a wine tour, I’m aware the limo ride between wineries is fairly common. What isn’t common is the bellman handing me a neatly folded and delicately beaded cream-colored shawl.
“In case you get cold, ma’am. I understand you need a coat for your trip back to the city as well. We’ll have that waiting for you in your room. The city does get quite chilly.”
“Thank you.” Relief washes over me at the sight of the garment despite what I guess to be the eighty-degree temperature. Inside the winery, I fear there will air conditioning, and my braless state will draw unwanted attention.
Chris smirks at the look on my face and I lift my chin defiantly and slide the shawl around my shoulders before climbing into a car with strangers.
“Ready?” he asks when I’m well-bundled.
“Ready.”
The bellman opens the car door and I slide to the far window seat to find I am alone until Chris joins me. He settles in next to me and the door shuts behind him. “Will there be others joining us?” I ask.
“Just us,” Chris informs me and I wonder why I imagined he would have it any other way. He has money and self-proclaimed desire for privacy.
The window between us and the driver slowly lowers but I am behind the driver and cannot see what he looks like unless I twist and look back. I suck in a breath as Chris’s hand slides under my dress and settles on my bare thigh, his fingers splaying intimately around my leg.
“I’m Eric, Mr. Merit,” the driver announces. “I’ll be your guide today. Are we still touring the vineyard, sir?”
“We are,” Chris replies. “I’m eager to show Ms. McMillan how Chateau Cellar produces a wine to rival the best in Paris.” He glances down at me, his green eyes dancing with enough heat to scorch the seat, while his reply is somehow matter-of-fact. “Chateau established Napa Valley as the wine industry it is today. In a blind test in Paris in 1976, the judges, biased to their own wineries, chose one of the Chateau’s wines.”
A tray lowers in front of us, but all I can think about is Chris’s fingers caressing lazily beneath my skirt. A bottle of wine and two glasses appears and Eric quickly explains, “It’s a 2002 Chateau Cabernet Sauvignon, one of our flagship wines, and a gift from our owners to you and Ms. McMillan, Mr. Merit, for your long-term support of our operation.”
Chris leans forward and fills two glasses, never taking his hand from my leg. “I’ll be sure and extend them heartfelt thanks.”
He lifts his glass and sips the wine, before holding it to my mouth. “Try it.” He gently urges my legs a bit further apart and I do not have wine on my mind.
The limo engine rumbles and we begin to move. My heart is thundering in my ears. “Chris,” I plead and I am not sure if I am asking him to touch me or asking him to stop. Both I think.
“Drink, Sara,” he orders softly, no give in his voice. He is in control, still teaching me that lesson. The driver is close, so very close, and he fully intends to take this farther than I want. He’s pushing me out of my comfort zone, testing me again, I think. Testing me. He is always testing me and I am not sure what the scorecard is or even what I’m trying to achieve.
I drink from the same spot that Chris has drunk from and taste the sweet plum flavor. Chris’s fingers brush my sex and I barely manage to swallow the wine.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Good,” I whisper.
“Just good?” he challenges, and his finger strokes my sensitive flesh. “Try another swallow.”
There is a edge of danger in the air; the risk of the driver catching us is all too obvious. I have never done anything like this in public and it frightens me, but what is most shocking is how it excites me.
I sip the blood-red liquid and Chris’s finger slides inside me. My gaze goes to the seat in front of me, but I cannot see the driver and he cannot see me. Though I feel as if he can.
Chris drinks from the glass again and then holds it to my lips. “Another,” he commands softly, tersely.
He isn’t going to allow me to escape this car without having his way with me. Of this, I am certain. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to be the girl who never lived in the moment. Alive, I’d told him, about what he makes me feel, and he does. I take the glass from him and down it.
He laughs low in his throat. “A little liquid courage?”
“Yes,” I confess.
“Is the wine satisfactory?” Eric calls out.
Chris sets the glass down, still teasing me mercilessly. “Is the wine satisfactory, Ms. McMillan?”
I glower at him through the thralls of near orgasm, my voice throaty and affected. “It’s…exceptional.”
“Excellent,” Eric approves jovially. “We’re approaching the entry to the vineyards now.” He begins telling us about the history of the territory, but I do not comprehend his words. It is all I can do not to moan as Chris’s thumb teases my cl*tand he slides a second finger inside me. The ache inside me expands and blossoms. I am going to have an orgasm in a limo with the driver practically watching. This can’t be happening.
“If you look to your right, you’ll see an important piece of the chateau’s history, Ms. McMillan,” Eric says. “Do you see the pond?”
“Yes,” I manage in a choked voice without looking. My body clenches around Chris’s fingers and spasms. My teeth sink into my lip and I turn to the window to hide my face, for fear Eric might glance at me in his rear-view mirror. He’s still speaking, telling me a story. I am oblivious to anything but the shattering of my body.
“Isn’t it a wonderful story?” Eric asks, wrapping up whatever he’d been saying.
“Yes,” I manage again, capable of speech but barely. “It’s delightful.”
“Isn’t it?” Chris asks, dark, heated mischief dancing in his green eyes as he strokes the slick folds of my sensitive flesh and slowly pulls out his fingers.
His eyes meet mine and hold my stare and he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them dry. “Delicious,” he murmurs and my body clenches one last time at the brazenly sensual act.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying the wine,” Eric proclaims.
Chris and I blink at each other and we erupt into laughter. I do not know how I have gone from dark forbidden passion to this lighter shared moment with Chris, but I do know one thing for sure. I have never felt more alive.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After a forty-five minute tour of the vineyards, I have had a glass of wine and I’m feeling a bit loose-limbed and warm all over for reasons aside from Chris’s wicked ways. I’ve enjoyed the tour and learned far more about wine on the drive than in all my studies on my own.
The limo arrives at the Chateau and it is truly a nineteenth-century castle, with green vines traveling the stone walls, and massive arched wooden doors almost as high as the structure.
“It was remodeled in the seventies,” Eric tells us, “and the entire two hundred and fifty-six acre property was converted to a modern wine-making facility.”
I follow Chris as he slides across the seat and pause as Eric turns to me, and I see him clearly for the first time. He is in his mid-fifties with greying hair and sharp blue eyes that miss nothing.
“Thank you for such a wonderful tour, Eric.”
He inclines his head. “My pleasure.” I cringe at the choice of words, because though his well-schooled features give nothing away, this man is too sharp not to know about the pleasure in the backseat. “Enjoy the Chateau. Ms. McMillan.”
Chris has long ago shed his jacket and he tosses it onto a back seat before exiting the car. I follow him out and understand why the jacket is staying behind. It’s still a warm day despite the five o’clock sun creeping lower in the sky, a complete turnaround from the chilly city on the ocean I’ve come to love.
I slide my hand into Chris’s to allow him to help me out of the car, and I am amazed at the zip of electricity up my arm from such a simple contact. My eyes meet his and I know he feels what I do, and I’m almost certain he too is surprised by how readily we impact each other. But then two lost souls searching for an escape should connect, I reason.
With a cautious tug of my skirt, I stand up and Chris’s lips quirk in a way that tells me he is thinking of what we’d done in the back of the car. I am, too.
His hand slides to my elbow and we head through a massive wooden door that seems more movie fantasy than real life. We step inside the chilled foyer with its high ceiling and stone walls.
An employee greets us, a pretty woman in her twenties, with long, blonde hair, and a curvy petite figure shown off in a pale pink suit. Her gaze lingers on Chris with admiration. I have a thing about blondes. I always have. Well, since high school when my best friend, who was of Swedish ancestry, caught every guy’s eye with her natural long, white- blonde hair and curves in all the right places. I was ‘cute’ and she was beautiful. This guide makes me feel cute.
“I’m Allison, Mr. Merit,” she announces, offering him her hand, which he accepts. “Such an honor to have you here. I’ll be taking you on a tour of the Chateau.” She flicks me a look, but doesn’t extend her hand. “Welcome to our establishment.”
Chris slides an arm around my waist, almost as if he senses my sudden insecurity. “Thank you, Allison. This is Sara and she’s the reason I’m here today. I want her to learn why this place is special.”
His hand resting on my waist is possessive, protective. My throat thickens with his actions. I feel as if no one else exists when I am with Chris and no one has ever made me feel this way. My fear of cute verses beautiful fades away.
We begin the tour and as we stop in various tasting rooms, stucco and stone walls, and rich culture everywhere. We end the tour in a wine cellar that is chilly and I am suddenly aware of my barely there dress and lack of undergarments.
I nod stiffly. “Even when I hated him for it.”
“Are we talking sex, Sara?”
I let my eyes shut, trying to make my suddenly thick breath leave my lungs. “Everything.”
“So the answer is yes. He made you do things you didn’t want to do.” It’s not a question.
My lashes snap open. “Because it was him and he treated me like I was his property put on this earth for his personal satisfaction.”
He studies me, his expression impassive, his features carved in stone. “And how do I make you feel?”
“Alive,” I whisper without hesitation. “You make me feel alive.”
A warm blanket of awareness wraps around us. “As you do me, Sara.”
Chris’s unexpected confession does funny things to my stomach. I make him feel alive?
“Your food has arrived,” the waiter announces in a far too efficient display of good, poorly-timed, service.
My salad, which is the size of Texas, is placed in front of me, and then the waiter sets down Chris’s burger. I sip my wine and the chill helps calm the heat burning through my body.
“They have an impressive wine list here at the hotel,” Chris comments. “And they have a wine educator on staff. If you want, I can arrange for her to spend some time with you in the morning?”
“I’d like that,” I say, aware of how hard he is trying to show support for my job. It matters, I think again. Chris keeps doing things that matter.
We dig into our food and he launches into some interesting wine facts about the region and I am far more interested in wine than I was when I was simply learning names and wineries.
“Part of understanding wine is understanding the regions where it’s produced. Italian wine is so revered because of the soil and the climate. Napa is one of the few places that can compete in those arenas, at least in my opinion. The climate here is classified as “Mediterranean”. Only 2% of the earth’s surface is Mediterranean. Add summers and mild winters, and grapes grow all year long.”
“It allows the grapes to grow but does it change the flavor?”
“Absolutely. Ten million years ago, the collision of the techtonic plates created the mountains and terrain here, along with a multitude of volcanic eruptions. The result is over one hundred varieties of soil and each lends a different flavor and texture to the product produced.”
Impressed with his knowledge, I ask a lot of questions as we eat. “How do you know so much about wine?”
There is a slight crackle to the air, a subtle tension. “My father was a connoisseur of wine to an extreme and as you’ve notice, despite my preferences otherwise, wine and art meld together quite frequently.”
His father. I sense tension in him when his father is brought up and I’m fairly certain he is also why Chris prefers beer over wine.
“Your car has arrived, Mr. Merit,” the waiter announces, appearing by our table.
“We’ll be right out,” Chris replies. “Charge the room for the tab.”
I’m surprised by this news. “You aren’t driving?”
“Easier to enjoy the wine with a sober driver to drive us back to the room.” Chris pushes to his feet and walks over to me, pulling my chair out and helping me to my feet. Suddenly, I am pressed against him, his hand molding me to his body, and he adds softly, “Easier to enjoy you.”
***
We step outside and I am reminded of how two hours of travel can drastically impact the weather. Where San Francisco has the chilly late August wind off the ocean, Calistoga, which is the Napa region we are in, does not.
A limo is parked in front of the doorway and it doesn’t surprise me to learn it’s for us. While I’ve never attended a wine tour, I’m aware the limo ride between wineries is fairly common. What isn’t common is the bellman handing me a neatly folded and delicately beaded cream-colored shawl.
“In case you get cold, ma’am. I understand you need a coat for your trip back to the city as well. We’ll have that waiting for you in your room. The city does get quite chilly.”
“Thank you.” Relief washes over me at the sight of the garment despite what I guess to be the eighty-degree temperature. Inside the winery, I fear there will air conditioning, and my braless state will draw unwanted attention.
Chris smirks at the look on my face and I lift my chin defiantly and slide the shawl around my shoulders before climbing into a car with strangers.
“Ready?” he asks when I’m well-bundled.
“Ready.”
The bellman opens the car door and I slide to the far window seat to find I am alone until Chris joins me. He settles in next to me and the door shuts behind him. “Will there be others joining us?” I ask.
“Just us,” Chris informs me and I wonder why I imagined he would have it any other way. He has money and self-proclaimed desire for privacy.
The window between us and the driver slowly lowers but I am behind the driver and cannot see what he looks like unless I twist and look back. I suck in a breath as Chris’s hand slides under my dress and settles on my bare thigh, his fingers splaying intimately around my leg.
“I’m Eric, Mr. Merit,” the driver announces. “I’ll be your guide today. Are we still touring the vineyard, sir?”
“We are,” Chris replies. “I’m eager to show Ms. McMillan how Chateau Cellar produces a wine to rival the best in Paris.” He glances down at me, his green eyes dancing with enough heat to scorch the seat, while his reply is somehow matter-of-fact. “Chateau established Napa Valley as the wine industry it is today. In a blind test in Paris in 1976, the judges, biased to their own wineries, chose one of the Chateau’s wines.”
A tray lowers in front of us, but all I can think about is Chris’s fingers caressing lazily beneath my skirt. A bottle of wine and two glasses appears and Eric quickly explains, “It’s a 2002 Chateau Cabernet Sauvignon, one of our flagship wines, and a gift from our owners to you and Ms. McMillan, Mr. Merit, for your long-term support of our operation.”
Chris leans forward and fills two glasses, never taking his hand from my leg. “I’ll be sure and extend them heartfelt thanks.”
He lifts his glass and sips the wine, before holding it to my mouth. “Try it.” He gently urges my legs a bit further apart and I do not have wine on my mind.
The limo engine rumbles and we begin to move. My heart is thundering in my ears. “Chris,” I plead and I am not sure if I am asking him to touch me or asking him to stop. Both I think.
“Drink, Sara,” he orders softly, no give in his voice. He is in control, still teaching me that lesson. The driver is close, so very close, and he fully intends to take this farther than I want. He’s pushing me out of my comfort zone, testing me again, I think. Testing me. He is always testing me and I am not sure what the scorecard is or even what I’m trying to achieve.
I drink from the same spot that Chris has drunk from and taste the sweet plum flavor. Chris’s fingers brush my sex and I barely manage to swallow the wine.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Good,” I whisper.
“Just good?” he challenges, and his finger strokes my sensitive flesh. “Try another swallow.”
There is a edge of danger in the air; the risk of the driver catching us is all too obvious. I have never done anything like this in public and it frightens me, but what is most shocking is how it excites me.
I sip the blood-red liquid and Chris’s finger slides inside me. My gaze goes to the seat in front of me, but I cannot see the driver and he cannot see me. Though I feel as if he can.
Chris drinks from the glass again and then holds it to my lips. “Another,” he commands softly, tersely.
He isn’t going to allow me to escape this car without having his way with me. Of this, I am certain. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to be the girl who never lived in the moment. Alive, I’d told him, about what he makes me feel, and he does. I take the glass from him and down it.
He laughs low in his throat. “A little liquid courage?”
“Yes,” I confess.
“Is the wine satisfactory?” Eric calls out.
Chris sets the glass down, still teasing me mercilessly. “Is the wine satisfactory, Ms. McMillan?”
I glower at him through the thralls of near orgasm, my voice throaty and affected. “It’s…exceptional.”
“Excellent,” Eric approves jovially. “We’re approaching the entry to the vineyards now.” He begins telling us about the history of the territory, but I do not comprehend his words. It is all I can do not to moan as Chris’s thumb teases my cl*tand he slides a second finger inside me. The ache inside me expands and blossoms. I am going to have an orgasm in a limo with the driver practically watching. This can’t be happening.
“If you look to your right, you’ll see an important piece of the chateau’s history, Ms. McMillan,” Eric says. “Do you see the pond?”
“Yes,” I manage in a choked voice without looking. My body clenches around Chris’s fingers and spasms. My teeth sink into my lip and I turn to the window to hide my face, for fear Eric might glance at me in his rear-view mirror. He’s still speaking, telling me a story. I am oblivious to anything but the shattering of my body.
“Isn’t it a wonderful story?” Eric asks, wrapping up whatever he’d been saying.
“Yes,” I manage again, capable of speech but barely. “It’s delightful.”
“Isn’t it?” Chris asks, dark, heated mischief dancing in his green eyes as he strokes the slick folds of my sensitive flesh and slowly pulls out his fingers.
His eyes meet mine and hold my stare and he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them dry. “Delicious,” he murmurs and my body clenches one last time at the brazenly sensual act.
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying the wine,” Eric proclaims.
Chris and I blink at each other and we erupt into laughter. I do not know how I have gone from dark forbidden passion to this lighter shared moment with Chris, but I do know one thing for sure. I have never felt more alive.
Chapter Twenty-Four
After a forty-five minute tour of the vineyards, I have had a glass of wine and I’m feeling a bit loose-limbed and warm all over for reasons aside from Chris’s wicked ways. I’ve enjoyed the tour and learned far more about wine on the drive than in all my studies on my own.
The limo arrives at the Chateau and it is truly a nineteenth-century castle, with green vines traveling the stone walls, and massive arched wooden doors almost as high as the structure.
“It was remodeled in the seventies,” Eric tells us, “and the entire two hundred and fifty-six acre property was converted to a modern wine-making facility.”
I follow Chris as he slides across the seat and pause as Eric turns to me, and I see him clearly for the first time. He is in his mid-fifties with greying hair and sharp blue eyes that miss nothing.
“Thank you for such a wonderful tour, Eric.”
He inclines his head. “My pleasure.” I cringe at the choice of words, because though his well-schooled features give nothing away, this man is too sharp not to know about the pleasure in the backseat. “Enjoy the Chateau. Ms. McMillan.”
Chris has long ago shed his jacket and he tosses it onto a back seat before exiting the car. I follow him out and understand why the jacket is staying behind. It’s still a warm day despite the five o’clock sun creeping lower in the sky, a complete turnaround from the chilly city on the ocean I’ve come to love.
I slide my hand into Chris’s to allow him to help me out of the car, and I am amazed at the zip of electricity up my arm from such a simple contact. My eyes meet his and I know he feels what I do, and I’m almost certain he too is surprised by how readily we impact each other. But then two lost souls searching for an escape should connect, I reason.
With a cautious tug of my skirt, I stand up and Chris’s lips quirk in a way that tells me he is thinking of what we’d done in the back of the car. I am, too.
His hand slides to my elbow and we head through a massive wooden door that seems more movie fantasy than real life. We step inside the chilled foyer with its high ceiling and stone walls.
An employee greets us, a pretty woman in her twenties, with long, blonde hair, and a curvy petite figure shown off in a pale pink suit. Her gaze lingers on Chris with admiration. I have a thing about blondes. I always have. Well, since high school when my best friend, who was of Swedish ancestry, caught every guy’s eye with her natural long, white- blonde hair and curves in all the right places. I was ‘cute’ and she was beautiful. This guide makes me feel cute.
“I’m Allison, Mr. Merit,” she announces, offering him her hand, which he accepts. “Such an honor to have you here. I’ll be taking you on a tour of the Chateau.” She flicks me a look, but doesn’t extend her hand. “Welcome to our establishment.”
Chris slides an arm around my waist, almost as if he senses my sudden insecurity. “Thank you, Allison. This is Sara and she’s the reason I’m here today. I want her to learn why this place is special.”
His hand resting on my waist is possessive, protective. My throat thickens with his actions. I feel as if no one else exists when I am with Chris and no one has ever made me feel this way. My fear of cute verses beautiful fades away.
We begin the tour and as we stop in various tasting rooms, stucco and stone walls, and rich culture everywhere. We end the tour in a wine cellar that is chilly and I am suddenly aware of my barely there dress and lack of undergarments.
