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“Girl, I swear.” He tugged on the sheet covering her breasts as he leaned down, sucking a nipple into his mouth while his hands cupped around the other tit. “Do I need to remind you who makes you squeal?”
“Oh, yeah, you do,” she said, laughing, throwing her head back, as he made a meal out of her tits. “Please remind me, please.”
He worked his way down her torso, licking and kissing her stomach, then her inner thighs, until she pushed his head between her legs. “Please, what?” His mouth centimeters from her pussy, he said, “Introduce you to a guy who has all those qualities, is that what you’re begging for?” There was a dark amusement to his tone, before he took the flat of his tongue and licked from the crease between her pinched back hole to her clit before resting his chin on her mons, waiting for her answer.
“Jake, asshole, pleeease eeeat meee,” she whined.
He sucked in her clit before his tongue plundered her hole as if spurred on by her cries, then he lifted his head. “Oh, so you’ll settle for me getting you off until you meet that guy?”
She dropped her head back. “God, you’re impossible. You’re that guy, minus the humble description. Now do me.” She giggled, her arms reaching for him.
He laughed with her, jerking down his briefs, crawling between her open legs. Obliging her desire.
Chapter Eighteen
Penetrating the stoic blue sky, the sun demanded attention as we stepped from the suite. The sky acted as a dramatic backdrop for the valley view, like something out of a postcard. I filled my lungs with air, the scenery opening up before me, disputing my memory of yesterday’s fiery thunderstorm and the dark, rumbling sky letting loose. Today, Mother Nature had adopted a new temperament.
“Oh, my gosh,” she hushed next to me. I knew why, the eye encompassed this panorama from the second story; there was no other reaction but to gasp in awe. I was so fucking grateful that she had, that she appreciated this because there was something almost nostalgic about the valley. Yes, it had become more commercialized, and I’d heard people call it the Disneyland of the wine region. Even if Napa and Sonoma had become a vacation destination, at its heart, it was a farming marvel with a grounded history, one that included beating the French in 1976 at The Taste of Paris competition, which always bugged my grand-mère. It’s something most people my age know nothing about. But when your very proud-to-be-French grandma had continually commented on how she was pretty sure the Americans cheated, even though that same competition was repeated thirty years later with the Americans once again prevailing, you learn. Rows and rows of grapevines lined the acres of land on either side of Highway 29, the main road leading into the heart of the valley, set against the backdrop of rolling hills covered in more vines. In March, the mustard plants were in full bloom, adding a pop of canary yellow to the vast miles of green.
Holding the cooler in one hand, I squeezed her wrist with the other. “Did you bring a hat, Sweets? The sun is intense today.”
“Yes,” she answered, using her hand as a visor to shield her eyes, peeking upward as if she needed to confirm that I was telling the truth. “Gosh, isn’t it weird how one day you're battling a storm and the next you are standing in the sun’s rays, as if that storm never even happened?” Leaning up on her toes, she pecked my cheek. “You know that saying, tomorrow is another day? I always thought that was so corny and basic, but there’s truth to it. I felt like that thunderstorm last night, but you probably didn’t notice the black cloud hanging over me.”
Slanting an eyebrow over one eye, my look obvious sarcasm, I said, “Nah, I didn’t notice a thing.” My voice was deadpan, letting my face deliver the message.
She chortled, and my mouth broke into a silly ass grin.
Last night, after checking in, I’d ordered room service while she showered, Rakell saying she wanted to see if it would pep her up…it did not. When the food came, I set everything up in the living part of the suite and started a fire with the wood they had stacked in the old-fashioned fireplace, remembering that she was excited that Harvest Inn had actual fireplaces. I opened a bottle of Champagne, but she took only a few sips, then moved her food around on her plate before saying, “Jake, I know you probably just want to get to it.”
“Huh?” I muttered, caught off-guard. “Get to it?” My eyebrows arched.
Her lips creased as she clearly forced a smile onto her face. “Well, I mean, you did all this…” her hand motioned to the food, Champagne, and fireplace.
My stomach knotted. I pushed my plate away, waiting for her next words.
“So, if we want to crawl in bed, I can thank you…for everything—show you my gratitude—I mean for this,” she sputtered, the stiff semi-grin still on her face.
I gritted my teeth, blocking my response. No, I don’t know what you mean. A commingling of shock and irritation shot through me. What the hell? I stilled the features of my face, examining her, her past rushing into my head. This is exactly how she said thank you, and it felt fucking awful. I knew she certainly didn’t offer herself to the men who paid big bucks in such a dispassionate way. She made it sound like I was a kid at the country club parking her car (my summer job before college), like she had to throw a five-dollar bill at me with a flippant “Thank you.” Goddamn, I made sure when I said “Thank you” to folks that I wrapped it in sincerity, not some afterthought.
“Well, I’m ready,” she stated, the obvious ruse in her voice clanging in my ears. She reached over, running her index fingers down my chest in some not-so-subtle display of fake sultriness as if I were too shallow to register her inner turmoil.
Damn, like I was the kind of asshole who didn’t fucking care about anything more than getting in her pants. Acid burned in my throat thinking about her words. Swallowing to distract from the tension scrunching my face, I grabbed the glass of Champagne and sipped it.
She snatched her hand from my stomach. “I just thought you probably...”
Methodically, I’d set down the empty glass, preparing some big-ass speech about how fucked-up her proposal was, how she meant more…but all that I could grind out was, “A simple thank you will do.” Abruptly standing, I turned my back to her; after a calming breath, then another, I’d regained my composure. “I’m tired, so let me get this cleaned up, and we can go to bed.” I heard her sharp intake of breath when I’d turned and wasn’t sure if she was pissed or shocked, and I really didn’t care.
We’d gone to bed without ceremony, and when she said, “Jake?” quietly, as if her next sentence would explain her thoughts, I kept my eyes closed and breathed through it. I had no patience. I was too strung out after battling the storm on the drive to engage in a charade with her, to act as if her insinuation didn’t infuriate me.
When she’d inched her ass against me this morning, I stiffened, still annoyed. Yeah, I laid there last night pretending to be asleep, rehearsing the lecture I was preparing to start off with: Just so you know, sweetheart, get-off sex is not really a thank you. It may be payment in your head, but it’s an insult in mine, especially if we both think this is long-term and since I’m professing love, I think there’s a future here. Any fortitude I’d had about making a point evaporated when her backside rubbed against my morning hard-on as the citrusy essence from her skin swam into my nostrils. Damn, I could drink whatever the hell she washed her body with. Within seconds, my treasonous cock had made sure my stubborn brain had no ability to reason. Giving into everything Rakell, I’d flexed into her touch, leading to a great way to start a day.
It’s not my style to stay mad; my dad literally doesn’t seem capable of holding a grudge, and my mom…Well, let’s just say, you’d better be ready for some silence and some repenting in the way of chores. Still, she caves easily, and my two older sisters have made it their mission to set me straight. I’m only allowed a small amount of pushback to their helpful bossiness. Plus, I’ve lived many years in a family unit of fifty-plus guys since I started playing ball. You learn quickly to let shit go, or the dynamic is fucked. Especially if you’re the quarterback, you’re supposed to lead and keep the team united around one goal, but the focus has to be on each other working together, or the goal might as well be some pot of gold at the end of a nowhere rainbow. There’s not much one player can do to split apart a team family. Good coaches make sure of that, and Coach Easton is one of the best; he calls guys out and will talk his players through shit, but he makes it clear he won’t tolerate players turning on each other. He knows our strength lies in our cohesiveness. So, dwelling in anger always seemed like a waste of energy.
“Perfect timing, our driver is here,” I said, as she stepped out holding a light green hat.
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Driver?”
“Yes, we’re going to at least three wineries. Neither of us will be able to drive by this afternoon. I have a great itinerary planned.”
