Page 61 of Love on the Vine
“You told me not to make anything!” I protested.
“I can make something.”
“You cook? You’ve been hiding your talents from me.”
“Of course I cook. I even enjoy it,” he scoffed, and I perched on the barstool and watched him crack eggs into a bowl.
I’d never had a guy cook for me before. I was so used to being the one to feed others that this simple gesture touched me, made me feel taken care of. That’s when I realized that he had been looking after me, in one way or another, since I got here. Even when he’d pretended to ignore me, he’d still made sure that Jin taught me about wine, that Chantal took me under her wing, and that our trip to Burgundy gave me the confidence to trust my palate and my instincts about taste.
He made two fluffy omelets with goat cheese and burst tomatoes and a small salad of arugula with warm crusty bread. Itwas simple, but perfect. We ate outside in the light of citronella candles.
“And here I thought you were subsisting on coffee and croissants!” I said as I broke off a piece of bread to sop up the runny bits of my omelet. “You never ate my lunches.”
His fingers grazed over mine. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t realize how much it meant to you. I was trying to avoid being too close to you at first.”
I stopped eating, stunned that he had admitted what I had only guessed at. “So it wasn’t my imagination. Why did you want to ignore me?”
“Because you hadn’t been in the house five minutes before my mind was already painting detailed images of all the things I wanted to do you. I felt like an old lecher.”
“You’re not old,” I said, lightheaded from his revelation.
“I’m older than I was yesterday,” he reminded me.
“Yes, I’m still not pleased about that. How could you not tell me? I didn’t even get you a present.”
His eyes darkened and the corner of his mouth turned up in a cocky smile. “Oh, you gave me a present all right. Best birthday I’ve ever had, in fact.”
I held my breath as he leaned over, stroking his fingers over my chin, before brushing his lips gently over mine. Then instead of deepening the kiss, he hovered there, leaving me wanting more.
“We didn’t finish . . .” I sighed, thinking about yesterday.
“Patience. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the kitchen, setting our dishes in the sink, before heading down to the cellar. I followed him inside and had just started rinsing the plates when he returned with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew in his hands.
“Not a wine tasting now,” I laughed.
“Dessert,” he said as he set the bottle down on the table and beckoned me over. Pulse thrumming, I picked up the bottle and read the label. My mouth dropped open. “Isn’t this one of the very expensive bottles you were saving?”
“Château d’Yquem. From 2001.” He slowly opened the seal and uncorked the bottle, and poured a glass. The light from the candles glinted off it, turning the liquid a rich golden amber as he swirled the glass around. “I’ll tell you a secret. I don’t like to celebrate my birthday, but I do open a ridiculously expensive bottle from the reserve and pour myself a glass every year around this time.”
“Ah, I see,” I said, happy to learn another secret.
After he’d poured us both a small amount, I went through the tasting ritual like a good pupil. The wine smelled like honey and candied fruit. And the first taste was not at all what I was expecting. Though it was sweet, it was delicate with just the right balance of acidity. A hint of spice gave it a sensual, almost carnal quality. “I thought you weren’t crazy about sweet wine.”
“I’m learning to appreciate sweet things.” He swirled his glass again, studying me. “Anyway, there’s a difference between an insipid sweetness and the more complex sweetness that makes you want to take another taste.”
He took another slow sip and then watched me as I put the rim of the glass to my mouth. I rolled my lips together, letting my tongue dart out ever so slightly to catch a vagrant drop on my lower lip.
“Well?” I asked. Could he taste it? I don’t think he was even conscious of his “tasting problem” right now. He seemed to completely forget about it in certain situations, and I wasn’t about to remind him of it now.
“Not bad. Could be better. Maybe if . . .” He stared at my mouth then brought the glass to my lips and, holding my gaze,tipped it into my mouth. Then he lowered his lips to mine, sucking my lower lip in a way that made heat flare in my belly.
“Much better. Let me try again,” he murmured as he pulled back and dipped his finger in his glass, ran it over my lips and dropped down to claim my lips in a long, playful kiss. Our tongues tangled, his hand caressing my back as mine wrapped around his neck. He pushed me back against the edge of the table and moved into the space between my legs. I could feel him, hard against my inner thigh, and I moaned when, once again, he pulled away.
“Not yet, sweetheart. I haven’t finished tasting you yet.” Dipping his finger in the glass, he dabbed wine on the pulse points behind my ear then brushed his warm lips against them, his tongue swirling lightly. I clung to him, breathless, as his lips traveled to my collarbone. His fingers moved to the thin straps of my dress, sliding them down my arms until my dress pooled at my feet.
He lifted me onto the table and explored me first with his eyes, his gaze running down my breasts, stopping at my panties, before grazing his fingertips over my hips. The tickling sensation made my nipples hard and the taut skin of my belly quiver in anticipation. “Christ, you’re even more beautiful that I remembered. I woke up in the middle of the night wondering if I had imagined it—how soft your skin was, the way your perfect tits felt in my hands, on my tongue.”
He dipped his finger in his wine glass again, anointed each nipple and then lowered his mouth to one breast, teasing the tip with his soft lips and tongue, while his other hand cupped and kneaded the other one. It was playful, like all his kisses so far, but I needed more. When I arched up into his mouth, he chuckled, his laugh vibrating over my sensitive skin.
