Page 480 of Not Over You

I’m blown away by the raw beauty, it’s breathtaking and somehow both romantic and filled with a deep longing. Generations of hard work and fruitful harvests hum on the wind, creating echoes I can almost touch.

Murmured voices break through the bubble around me, and I spin to pinpoint where they’re coming from. I’m greeted with nothing but rustic wooden buildings, farmland, and silence. What the hell? I might be a little tipsy still, but I’m not drunk enough to conjure up voices.

“This way. We’re headed inside the cellar where the tequila is aged in French oak barrels for anywhere between two months and three or more years.”

The breath in my lungs is forced out while a shiver snakes up my spine, creating an eruption of goosebumps that spread all over my tingling skin. That voice. I know that voice. Pure sin and honey, even when talking about something as mundane as the aging process of tequila. No fucking way he’s here. No fucking way he’s the tour guide. He’s way too uptight to deal with a crowd of tourists, likely all on their way to being drunk as this is a tequila tour. He’d have to remove several sticks from his ass before he could do that. Right? And yet, my feet are taking me towards the murmurs of conversation in the distance, before I even have a conscious thought of what to do.

Going back around the corner of the barn-like building, I see a line of maybe ten people walking through a propped open door and down a set of stairs into what I assume is the cellar. No tattooed giant in sight. Could I have been wrong? Is my mind playing tricks on me because my hussy of a pussy wants only him? Fuck. Who knows, but maybe whoever is running the tour will let me slip in. I’m happy to pay the full ticket price even though I’ve obviously missed most of the tour and already pushed a few bills under their office door.

I quicken my pace, a thrill of excitement thrumming through me at the thought of possibly seeing that stranger from the plane who fucked me damn near silly earlier. No! Bad vagina, I scold, brushing the unwanted and intrusive thoughts away. This trip is about relaxing—having fun in the sun, getting the perfect shots, and consuming copious amounts of tequila—not men.

Descending the stairs, I’m shocked to find the cellar is far more expansive than I imagined. Rows upon rows of wooden barrels line the inside with wide walkways in between. The walls are made of aging stone that’s seen better days, but the open door I just walked through is oddly modern with a metal locking mechanism. Huh? Maybe they have break-ins or something? I mean if I owned this much booze, I’d have it locked down as well. That it’s their livelihood and the sole purpose of the farm, it only makes sense.

“Did you see how hot the tour guide is? I wanna take a body shot off him.” A woman in front of me licks her lips, before breaking out into a giggle. Her friend joins her, waggling her brows, and they both fall into a fit of laughter. Clearly, they’re inebriated.

“Best tour ever,” the friend slurs. “Even if he is older and screams dangerous with his cold tone and sexy tattoos—that makes it even better. He’d probably want me to call him sir while he punished me for being a bad bad girl.”

Okay, that’s enough of that. I walk around the stupidly drunk girls and head down an empty aisle. My fingertips glide against the oak barrels, the faint scent of tequila, oak, and earth settle into my senses and a calmness washes over me. There’s so much history in this room. If these barrels could talk, what would they say? Would they speak about the farmer who worked his hands to the bone to produce the tequila within them? Or maybe they’d tell the tale of the decadent tequila patiently aging until it’s ripe to perfection?

I raise my camera and capture the aisle, backing up a few steps to shoot straight down the center before pointing the lens at the nearest oak barrel and taking a barrage of photos both in focus and out.

I’m lost in my head when my skin breaks out in a flash of goosebumps—like an early warning system—just before a shadow looms over me from behind. If I wasn’t sure it was him before, I am now. My body recognizes him and as much as I hate it, I also want to revel in his presence.

“What are you doing here?” His deep, sinful voice growls into my ear, and I can’t stop myself from shivering. My eyes flutter closed, all of my nerve endings sparking to life.

“I’m here for the tour. What are you doing here?” I finally reply, turning to look up at him.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Stupidly gorgeous. God, how could I ever think once would be enough? That I would be satiated and somehow forget he exists. No one should ever forget a man like him. Cut from hard stone, shaped by the Greek deities, and dripping in everything sinful and delicious.

The muscles in his jaw grind together, like it’s taking everything in him not to respond how I know he truly wants to. With a sharp retort and maybe a hand around my throat. I swallow loudly and he tracks the movement, eyes gleaming with brimstone and desire.

“My family owns this farm. You’re telling me you didn’t know and just happened to sneak in on my tour?” he scoffs at me, and I give him a look like he’s lost his everloving mind.

“How would I know? I never saw you after I got off the plane and we didn’t exchange names or numbers or anything.” I raise my eyebrow at his presumptuous ass.

That tick in the jaw is harsher, and I smirk at him, knowing he realizes how full of himself he sounded. “The tequila tour is almost over, you need to leave,” he bites out. “You haven’t paid for this one. There are more tomorrow you can join if you feel inclined, but this one is closed.”

His expression is hard and unyielding, and I have a feeling there was a silent ‘to you’ he left off the end. Too damn bad. I give him a saccharine smile and pull out a few bills from my bikini top. He tracks my movement like the predator he is and I reach forward, stuffing them into his jeans pocket. I half expect him to bat my hand away and growl at me for touching without permission, but he doesn’t. In fact he seems a bit speechless.

A triumphant smirk stretches across my face. “There, all paid. Now show me around Mr. Grumpy Pants. Give me the full tour.” I know I’m playing with fire, evident in the flames erupting in his eyes, but damn if I don’t wanna burn a little.

Sunflowers. She’s wearing a goddamn sunflower bikini that barely covers her luscious curves, even with the black mesh wrap around her waist. I can’t decide whether I want to rip her clothes off, or cover her up. She can’t have known the meaning of sunflowers to me, and yet, the universe decided it wasn’t done twisting me up inside and put her in a sunflower bikini that would ravish my mind while simultaneously sending all of my blood to my dick. Fuck.

I thought I was going crazy when I saw familiar red curls bouncing as a woman ducked down one of the aisles. Good to know I’m not seeing things, though her being here is a glaring reminder of what I won’t allow myself to have—the loss of control she triggers. Her smart mouth is going to get her in trouble and I’m not sure she can handle the punishment I’ll dole out.

My hand snaps out, fingers wrapping around her delicate throat as I push her up against the rack of tequila barrels. She gasps, her back hitting the wood and not in a gentle way. Her eyes widen and she licks her lips as I search her features and find nothing but smoldering heat and defiance brimming them—not an ounce of fear.

Leaning in, I resist licking the shell of her ear and instead murmur, “You are not in charge here,” and tighten my grip around the base of her neck.

She groans and bobs her head in agreement, but her vibrant green eyes betray her true thoughts, as does the smirk spreading across her perfectly fuckable mouth. A growl builds in my throat, but I tamp it down, not wanting others nearby to hear. She wraps her fingers around the wrist of the hand I’m using to pin her to the barrel rack, while her other hand lands on my chest and pushes against me, attempting to dislodge herself from my touch. I cluck my tongue at her, my body is a solid mass she has no hope of moving, unless I allow it—and I don’t.

“What have I told you about touching someone without permission?”

“You literally have your hand wrapped around my throat and I don’t remember giving you permission for that,” she snaps.

“What a poor memory you have, then. Did you not give yourself over to me, to command your body as I chose? Has my touch not been burned into your flesh? A reminder of who it belongs to when I’m near.”

Silence.

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