Page 52 of The Vineyard Crush

“Good.”

One syllable, as crisp and definitive as the snap of a perfectly ripe grape. She drops down next to me, closing the last inch of space between us, shattering every defences I’d ever built, easing the pain that had made a home in my chest, she captured my lips with hers.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision, a merging of two worlds—her vineyard sunshine and my ranch’s rugged earth. As her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, I realized that maybe, just maybe, those worlds were meant to collide all along. Her lips are soft, and yielding, yet there’s a boldness in her approach that speaks of untapped passion. She tastes of sunshine and the possibility, of late-summer grapes just hours from harvest.

My hands find her waist, steadying her as much as myself. Up here on the roof, under a canopy of stars maybe my wish came true, maybe I can be enough.

“You feel so goddamn good in my arms, sweetheart, I can’t wait to have you writhing beneath me, begging for more.”

Twenty Two

Emma

Ridge flips us, and suddenly I’m sprawled on the roof, the rough shingles a stark contrast to his smooth, sun-warmed skin. His lips find my neck, and the vibrations of his contented hums travel through my spine, settling like molten honey in my lower belly. A soft whimper escapes me as his hands grasp my waist, pulling me into him with a force that belies his gentle touch.

“Ridge…” His name falls from my lips like a prayer, only to be swallowed by his kiss. His hands move leisurely over my body, as if he’s mapping uncharted territory, committing every curve and plane to memory. My fingers tangle in his hair, seeking an anchor in this sea of need that threatens to drown me.

His hips grind against mine, his hardness pressing right where I crave it most. There are too many layers between us—denim, cotton, the very air itself seems an obstacle. I part my lips to voice this frustration, but what comes out instead is a loud moan as his fingers find my center.

He moves at a torturously slow pace, and I try to buck my hips, chasing that elusive friction. But he has me pinned down, his body a delicious cage. “I told you, Little Flower,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, “I’ll drive you crazy until you’re begging me to let you come.”

When he enters my heat with one long finger, I wither like a vine in drought, desperate for his touch. “Ridge, please,” I beg, almost shaking with need.

“That’s it,” he encourages between kisses that brand my neck and collarbone. “Good girl.”

Two simple words, and my body reacts as if he’s spoken an ancient spell. My inner walls flutter, and I teeter on the edge of bliss, but he keeps me there, suspended in this exquisite torture.

“You like that?” His voice is deeper, richer, like the earth after rain. “You like being my good girl?” Another flutter around his teasing finger, and I nod frantically, beyond words. “What does my good girl want?”

“You, Ridge.” The confession tumbles out, raw and unfiltered.

He pauses, and I whine at the loss. “Say it again. What do you want, baby?”

Oh God. “You, Ridge. You.”

Something shifts in him, like a dam breaking. His leisurely pace turns frantic; he’s everywhere at once, and I’m a mess of sensation. As he adds another finger, the knot in my stomach tightens. I keep climbing higher, like a vine reaching for sunlight, until the pleasure crashes through me in waves.

While I’m still floating in my haze, he undoes his belt. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch him pull himself out. “Fuck, Lil Flower, I…” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on the pill, Ridge. Please, I want you to…” I trail off into a moan as his grip on my waist tightens. He looks at me, his gaze burning with sincerity. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” One word, and he’s back to kissing me, his tip nudging my entrance.

“Fuck,” he mumbles as he enters me in one smooth thrust. We both groan, pausing to savor this moment—this perfect alignment, like two vines intertwining. Then he starts to move.

It’s a dance of tangled limbs and fervent kisses, hard thrusts, and soft words. Our bodies move in sync, like we’ve been tending this vineyard together for years, not hours. I feel myself nearing the edge again, and this time, without warning, the waves crash over me—a harvest of pleasure, ripe and overwhelming.

Just as I come down, he pulls out, spilling onto my stomach. After a moment, he’s back, kissing me softly, grinding against me. My mind is in the clouds, lost in the vineyard’s starlit expanse, when suddenly I jolt downward. There’s a loud crack, and the wooden plank beneath me gives way. I grab Ridge instinctively, ensuring I don’t fall through.

“Shit… Shit… Shit,” Ridge mumbles, holding me away from the crack by my waist. We stare at each other—one second, two—before laughter bubbles up, uncontrollable and free. I bury my face in his chest, feeling the vibrations of his mirth as he maneuvers us to an uncracked plank, settling me in his lap.

“Well, that was awesome and adventurous,” he chuckles, and I pull him closer by his shirt collar, kissing him deeply.

Against his lips, I whisper, “It was perfect.” And it was—flawed, unexpected, a little dangerous, but perfect. Like a wine that’s bold and complex, with notes of passion and hints of risk, culminating in a finish that lingers long after the last sip.

Completely undeterred by the roof’s betrayal, Ridge lays down, bringing me on top of him. I snuggle into his warmth, his body a stark contrast to the crisp night air that nips at my skin. My sundress, chosen for its charm rather than practicality, does little to shield me from the cold. But with Ridge beneath me, I’m enveloped in a warmth that rivals a summer afternoon in the vineyard—all sun-baked earth and ripening grapes.

He kisses the top of my head as I trace lazy circles on his pecs, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath my fingertips. It’s a rhythm that matches the quiet hum of the vineyard at night, a soothing cadence that speaks of home.

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