Page 33 of Rock the Chardonnay

“No, it feels incredible.” Shamelessly, I arch my chest toward his hand. My clit aches for pressure, for friction, for something more. “Don’t do that unless you’re prepared to get me off.”

A wicked grin spreads across his face. “That can be arranged. Can I lick it?”

Speech is for other times. My entire body feels flushed and furious. Without saying another word, I push my leggings down over my ass, exposing myself to him. “Please,” I say.

His eyes twinkle, his pupils dilated with lust. “You want to touch yourself while I do it?”

Fuck. Yes. I don’t feel self-conscious. Not with Declan. He makes me feel safe. Loved.

It’s either that realization or the sensation of his mouth clamping over my nipple ring and suckling, playing with it with his tongue, rolling it in his mouth, that makes the orgasm rip through me faster than a hummingbird’s wings can flap. I barely need to press my clit before I writhe beneath him.

He keeps suckling my nipple as I come, riding the waves of pleasure.

Loved. Yes. He makes me feel loved.

Maybe I’m not my mother. Maybe I don’t have to run from people all the time. Maybe I can have this beautiful thing: a family, a place that’s home and not just a crash pad.

I don’t want a plethora of experiences. I only want this one. There’s a reason real love writes millions of songs. I don’t need everything, I only need him.

He is my epic love song.

I’m in love with him, and I don’t have a single clue what to do about it.

CHAPTER 17

Declan

We might not have a future, but we have a present, and everything in me wants her.

With her hands fisted in my hair, she moans as I kiss her through her orgasm. It isn’t enough. I’m in love with her, desperately, wildly, and the thought that she might leave in the morning slashes through me. I need to do more. I have to give her a reason…if not to stay, to come back.

“Do you want a drink?” I say, my voice husky. Reluctantly I look up from her nipple ring—seriously, I’m ruined for other women after Daughtry—and into her face. Tears collect at the corners of her eyes, and I bolt upright. “Shit, Daughtry. Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I—”

“No, you didn’t hurt me. It was wonderful.” She wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. “Honestly, it’s just the sex hormones. And I realized I’m leaving tomorrow, and it just all feels like a lot.”

I pull her to a sitting position in front of me, and wrap my arms around her. Her head nestles just under my chin, and it all feels so right. Like I’ve been waiting for her my entire life, and now my body is saying, good, let’s get on with it already.

I want to ask if she has to leave, if there’s any way she could stay, but that’s selfish. I know that. She has her career, and who am I?

A stepping stone. A tangle in her bedsheets. A footnote on her sheet music.

The thought of that riles me up, almost more than seeing her nipple ring.

Almost, because it’s a fucking nipple ring adorning Daughtry’s completely perfect-for-me breasts. Nothing else will ever compare.

Running my hand up the back of her shirt, I cradle her against me. I don’t want to be forgettable. I want to imprint myself on her the way she has on me. “We’ll have to make this time memorable, then.”

She glances up at me, tears drying on her cheeks. “What did you have in mind?”

I lean over the bar and fetch a glass and a bottle of the rosé. “Have a drink with me.” I pour the strawberry-pink liquid into the glass, not splashing a single drop. Years of working at the tasting room finally has a benefit. “It matches your hair.”

“So it does.” She goes to take the glass from me, but I hold it to my lips instead. The wine covers my tongue, filling my palate and my senses with its light, springy pop of flavor. She arches her eyebrow. “When is it my turn?”

I can’t answer her with a mouth full of wine, so I set the glass down, place my hand on the back of her neck, and pull her toward me. We kiss, long and slow, and I let some of the wine in my mouth drip into hers. She moans as it spreads across her tongue, then again when I sweep my tongue through her mouth. Tasting her with the wine is a whole other level of sensation.

“More,” she groans. She wiggles her hips, shuffling her leggings down her thighs and past her knees.

I would have given her everything, if she only asked. Instead, I take another small sip of wine, warming it in my mouth. Then I break away from her sweet, swollen lips, and press my kisses to her pussy instead. She arches into me, seeking more contact, panting with want.

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