Page 53 of The Vineyard Crush

“By the way,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through my body, “if it wasn’t clear by me breaking my roof to fuck you…” He captures my hand in his, pressing it over his heart. “I like you too, Little Flower. All too much.”

I smile, nuzzling closer. His scent—a heady mix of leather, wood, and something uniquely Ridge—envelops me like a favorite blanket. He reaches for his phone, taps a few times, and suddenly the night air is filled with a melody that’s as familiar to me as my own name.

“Cardigan” by Taylor Swift. The song wraps around us, its nostalgic notes perfectly mirroring this moment—unexpected, tender, a bit worn around the edges but all the more precious for it.

“I love that song!” I exclaim, and his smile is like watching the first buds break in spring—a quiet joy, full of promise.

“I know.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a single candy. “Here.”

My heart flutters in recognition. “That’s Alpenliebe!” It’s not just any candy; it’s the one I love. “Again, baby, I know.” The endearment, so casually spoken, sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I kiss the corner of his lips, tasting the lingering sweetness of our earlier passion, then take the candy. But instead of popping it into my mouth, I pause, bringing it to his lips.

“Bite it,” I instruct.

His brow furrows. “What? That’s candy, baby, not chocolate.”

“I know.” A smirk plays on my lips. “Bite hard.”

He does, his trust in me evident. The candy breaks into three uneven pieces—two falling into my palm, one captured between his teeth. I pop the remaining two into my mouth, the burst of sweetness a delightful contrast to the roof’s rough texture beneath me.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

He leans in, sucking my lower lip between his. “Now it’s good.” I giggle, and his smile—god, that smile could make me fall in love.

“So, Taylor Swift?” I ask, curious about this unexpected layer of the man beneath me.

He shrugs, a movement I feel more than see. “Once you listen to her, you get hooked. And I have two little girls screaming her songs almost all day.”

“True. But who’s your favourite?”

“Well, I loved Boston and Nirvana. I have all their vinyl CDs.” His eyes light up, like a vintner discussing a prized vintage. “I used to have a vinyl record player, but it broke.”

“Hmm, I love ‘More Than a Feeling.’ Do you have that on vinyl?” The thought of Ridge, all rugged edges and quiet strength, listening to Boston’s soaring melodies… it fits, in a wonderfully incongruous way.

“I do.” His surprise is palpable. “You know Boston?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Well, you know Taylor Swift, old man. I can know Boston.” The tease rolls off my tongue, sweet and sharp like the first taste of our Sauvignon Blanc.

“Old man, huh?” His smirk is predatory, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “I’d go for round two right now. Sure you can keep up with this old man?” In a move that belies his words, he flips us again, and I laugh as he trails kisses down my neck.

But then he pauses, his breath hot against my skin. “But not here. Let’s go.”

We’re a tangle of limbs in his bedroom, our bodies fitting together like two vines that have grown intertwined, impossible to separate without causing harm. The sheets, a rich burgundy that reminds me of our boldest Cabernet, are twisted around us, bearing silent witness to the night’s passionate revelations.

My body hums with a deep, satisfying ache—a physical echo of the five climaxes Ridge coaxed from me. Each orgasm was distinct, like vintages from consecutive years; same vines, same soil, but each bearing the unique signature of its season. The first two, on his roof, was a wild, untamed burst, like our inaugural harvest’s audacious Syrah. The third and fourth, here in his bed, were richer, more layered—a well-structured Merlot followed by an opulent Cabernet Franc. And the fifth… oh, the fifth was pure luxury, a late-harvest dessert wine that left me honeyed and sun-drunk.

Now, in this criminal space between night and day, we talk. Our voices are low, and intimate, as if speaking any louder might shatter this cocoon we’ve spun.

“I never thought I’d see so many Vinyls in one place,” I confess, tracing the line of his collarbone. As I listen to a country tune playing in one ear and look at the impressively huge Vinyl Collection in Ridge’s bedroom.

Ridge chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. “I Used to have a pretty neat Vinyl Player too.”

“Oh, Thats cool. What happened to it .”

His fingers dance along my spine, each touching a spark that reignites embers I thought had cooled. “Hmm. Lets see Lily and Cody were playing catch and my Record Player caught their ball.”

I laugh, as I imagine younger versions of Lily and Cody running around in the house breaking stuff “That’s very cute..” Impulsively, I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of the Alpenliebe candy.

We drift from topic to topic, like bees moving between blossoms—gathering nectar here, pollinating there, each interaction enriching both parties. He tells me about his past and his brother James and his Parents. I share my vision for the vineyard, my friends from college, and the books I read.

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