Page 100 of Rush of Jealousy

“Remember, Miss McFee. You are,” he says, pausing to kiss me on my nose, “a lightweight.”

I frown. “I am not.”

“You very much are. And if you get drunk tonight, I might just have to devouryouinstead of the wine.”

I furrow my brow as the car leads us up to a rustic looking building with a huge sign in the shape of a wine bottle stating “Majestic Valley.”

He leans over the seat bench and suckles on my exposed skin at the V of my shirt. “Mm hmm.” He licks over the sensitive spot, and I fear he has left a territorial mark. Reluctantly, he pulls himself away from me, eyes hooded and soft.

He has a point about my tolerance. My track record in regard to alcohol is nothing to brag about. Pretty sure the last time I really had a drink, I landed flat on my ass.

“We are going to go on a little tour since the lake is known for having a variety of grapes, which make quality wines. There are over thirty wineries here,” he elaborates. “We only have time to visit a few.”

I smile and scoot out of the car with the help of his hand at this first stop. We follow the path up to the building, and the place looks deserted of all other customers—despite being a perfect weather Sunday afternoon. Our hands remain entwined. There is something extremely innocent about the act, which is odd because nothing about Graham resembles innocence.

“I wanted privacy,” he responds boyishly with a shrug, answering my unspoken question about the lack of customers.

“Oh,” I mouth silently and continue to follow him through the doors. Excitement bubbles. I have never done a wine tasting before—especially not at an actual vineyard.

“Mr. Hoffman, Miss McFee, I’m so glad you could make it,” a black-haired lady greets us, breaking our skin to skin contact by reaching out her hand to be shaken. I smile at her warmth and French accent. Her all-weather jacket sports the embroidered Majestic Valley winery logo. “Shall we explore the property?” She starts walking, never waiting for an answer.

Perhaps she understands Graham’s hatred for wasting time.

We follow her out to an awaiting golf cart. Graham’s hand that was once enveloping my own now rests at the small of my back—another hot spot. We sit on the back cushion together, as the guide takes the driver’s seat. A young man steps out of the shop that we just left and hands us each a glass filled with their award-winning Cabernet Sauvignon namedPurity; it is a delicious bold tasting wine that takes me a little bit of time to get used to the flavors. The worker also hands us an oversized fleece blanket, big enough for the two of us to bundle underneath to keep warm from the fall air.

The tour guide pulls out into the field with the cart and explains the process on how the particular vineyard harvests the grapes and how they determine what type of wine will be produced based on the season and type of fruit. She explains how each winery around Chelan Lake is unique in flavor due to the different types of soil surrounding the water and the different harvesting methods and time frames used to collect and utilize the fruit. Graham and I sit and enjoy the warmth from the wine and our own body heat.

Under the blanket, Graham’s hand rests on my upper thigh, just a few inches above my knee, and his fingers draw little circles on my nylon-covered leg. The simple motion soothes me, and the working of the wine relaxes my joints to the point that I am leaning up against him and snuggling into his side.

“Are you flirting with me, Miss McFee?”

“Maybe,” I whisper softly, savoring his light mood.

He bends down and licks along my earlobe. “Don’t worry. I like it.”

I shiver.

“Cold?”

My eyes narrow on him. “You know damn well what effect you have on me. Don’t start something here that you can’t finish,” I warn.

Graham’s hands find my waist and with little use of his strength, I am tugged from the soft leather seat to the firm cushion of his thighs. Somehow the slack in the blanket allows for me to sit comfortably in his lap, and our rapid heartbeats merge into one big vibration. He turns me so I am straddling him and readjusts the blanket to cover my now exposed behind.

His breath is in my ear. “You think I won’t pull your panties to the side and fuck you right here? Do you honestly think I care if anyone knows? So do not suggest otherwise. I am keeping myself a gentleman in public for your sake.” He punctuates his blunt words with a bite to my neck, making me jerk up in surprise.

“Ouch,” I hiss, rubbing at the mark I know he left.

His fingers dig into my side, and the pain pulsates through my lower region, sending electric currents to my sex. He knows my limits and rides the fine line between too much and not enough.

“Maybe I don’t want you to be a gentleman,” I goad, mimicking his tone.

With a motion of his hand, the golf cart comes to a stop. Within seconds, I am lifted into the air. The blanket falls off me onto the dirt path. The sudden burst of cool air awakens my senses. I yelp as my butt gets a hard spank, and I am carried like a sack of potatoes toward a renovated barn building that is covered with caution tape and do not enter signs.

I am too embarrassed to look back at our guide, who I am sure is as confused as I am.

“Put me down!” I beg, anger simmering to a boil. “This is embarrassing!”

Graham pushes open a thick red painted door. He sets me back on my feet, and I fix my skirt into place but keep my eyes locked on his.

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