Page 10 of Whispers on the Mountain

"Hand me your phone, Zephyr."

See? That's what conviction sounds like.

When he gets very serious, his voice goes stern and loses the trace of accent. I haven't decided which way sounds sexier yet but I'm determined to hear more of both.

I unlock the screen and hand over my phone without hesitation. I don't care if he's going to put his number in it or if he's going to go through it looking for naked selfies or so he can delete any texts I might have from other guys. It's all good with me.

He has elegant fingers. Long and slender on hands that are at least twice the size of my own. Hands that were very recently wrapped around my thighs and my ass in ways that I'm kinda hoping left marks for me to admire later.

Those fingers tap against my screen for a minute and then he hands me back my phone.

"You let me know when you get home safely, fiore."

August waits till I'm settled into the driver's seat, watching to make sure I buckle my seat belt and then he nods at the insulated water bottle in the cup holder and reminds me to stay hydrated.

I don't even get a kiss goodbye.

It's like the whole kitchen scene never happened, but the whisker burn between my thighs says I absolutely did not hallucinate that-- that, and the fact that I'm driving home without my panties. Those are still in Augustus's pocket.

Augustus Damiani is the only thing I've been able to think about for weeks now. It's pretty obvious that he wants me too and I am determined to find a way into his bed.

* * *

Augustus

Fiore spends her days torturing me.

I should never have put my number in her phone.

I remind myself that I needed to know she had made it home safely; the road between the village and Moonshine Ridge is steep and winding and wildlife can catch drivers by surprise even in broad daylight.

The part of me that no longer lies to myself scoffs at my half-truth. I was desperate to maintain contact with the gentle breeze that's blown into my heart.

Since she called to tell me she arrived home safely-- called, mind you. I had expected a text. Hearing her sweet voice in my ear had only led to a night of misery as I soaked the sheets with my cum, painfully aware of the opportunity I'd turned down to have Zephyr in my bed and filled with my seed instead.

Now she sends me pictures daily. Of the flowers she transplanted in her garden and greenhouse; of the sunrise over the mountains from the back deck of her cottage in the family estate of Hart's Gulch; of her naked tits swinging free and beautiful with the blur of color from her greenhouse flowers in the background; of her fingers working between her legs, those dusky blonde curls wet with her arousal as she shows me what I should never have asked to see.

I'm too fucking weak to block her number; too fucking addicted to her light to leave her on read. So, like a fool, I reply. Every time.

I don't need my alarm anymore because I wake to Zephyr's morning texts. Another sunrise, the deer in the meadow, the steam rising from her coffee mug.

Her cheerful good mornings have become conversations: how did you sleep? What will you do today? Did you dream about me-- I dreamed about you-- should I come visit?

We chat through the afternoons, her cheerful photos of her gardens and the bouquets she makes to sell in the little store down there brightening days that I hadn't realized were so dull till now.

And my nights all end the same now, with me typing out a wish for sweet dreams for her in Italian because she says she sleeps best when I do, and then with me putting those dirty pictures she sends me to the shameful use she intends them for.

But I always evade her suggestions of coming back up to see me. I won't take her innocence. That's not a gift I deserve. It would haunt me forever if I became fiore's greatest regret.

Which is why I don't leave my desk on the day my front porch security camera alerts me to a visitor.

I watch her from my screen as she sits on the step far beyond the time she knows I'm usually home. I can't bring myself to open the messages she sends me; no doubt wondering if I've been delayed at the plant and when I'll get there.

If I answer her, if I see her, I won't be able to stop myself from claiming her.

So I sit at my desk in my office, behind the safety of a manned security gate that keeps her from coming up to the plant, and watch the live feed from the camera on my porch like a coward.

It's after dark when Zephyr has cried herself dry and gives up her vigil, leaving one of her bouquets resting against the bottom of my door.

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