I’ve never met a woman who responds so intensely to my slightest touch, my softest whisper, my lightest kiss. But Weatherly does. Maybe that’s why, even as I crept out of her room this morning, I was hard with the need for more. Maybe that’s why I turned around and went right back inside, peeled the covers off her naked body and climbed back into bed with her. I don’t think she was fully awake when I rolled her onto her stomach and pressed her down into the mattress. I don’t think she was fully aware of what I was doing when I slipped my fingers inside her. But that might’ve been the best part. She was already wet, like she was just waiting for me to come back to her.
“Fair Weatherly,” I’d whispered in her ear as I fingered her from behind. She’d moaned, raising her hips to give me better access. “Please tell me you’re on some kind of birth control.”
“I . . . I am,” she answered breathlessly. I almost lost it right on the spot. “I-I’m clean, too,” she’d panted. I told her I was tested regularly and everything was fine.
By that time, she was riding my fingers all the way to my knuckles and my hand was wet halfway up my palm.
“Oh God,” she’d whispered, and I could feel her squeezing me tighter and tighter. That’s when I pulled her hips up off the bed and eased my cock into her as deep as it would go. She came as soon as I entered her and I think I came about ten seconds later, with her milking me the whole time.
That tight little pussy . . . God!
I was still breathing hard, still buried balls deep inside her, when she fell back to sleep. That time, I did manage to leave and not come back. Now here I am, on my way back to the house after checking the east field for evidence of glassy winged sharpshooters, an insect that can mean death to an entire crop of grapes. They’ve been particularly bad in some areas this year and if they spread Pierce’s disease, it’s all over but the crying. My mind isn’t as focused on the grapes as it should be, though. I’ve been picking at a little corner of guilt that sprang up right after I left Weatherly. I can’t help wondering how differently this would be playing out if she knew everything about me, about my past. Even about my present. But I can’t tell her those things. At least not yet.
That’s when I heard the motor. Now I’m watching dust puff up behind the rear bumper of the silver car, wondering to myself who the hell brings a Bentley up into the mountains. Even William O’Neal, Weatherly’s father, has enough sense not to do that.
A vague sense of dread and irritation seeps in to suffocate the satisfaction and contentment I’d been feeling since leaving Weatherly’s room. Something tells me I won’t like what I find when I get back.
And I don’t.
I hear voices when I walk through the kitchen. One of them is Weatherly’s. It’s barely recognizable. It’s stiff and cool, although still remarkably pleasant despite it. I’m already bristling at whoever decided to intrude upon our morning before I even walk out into the foyer.
I clear my throat when they’re within view. Both Weatherly and the guest, the guy with whom she is obviously familiar, turn toward me. On her face is fear. Fear and the same dread I was feeling on the walk back to the house. She still looks like the beautiful creature I left sleeping in her bed, only now she has this cornered look about her, like a predator found her while her protector was away. That much is easy to see.
I tear my eyes away from her in favor of assessing the threat. The man she’s talking to reeks of money. Everything from his two-hundred-dollar haircut to his thousand-dollar shoes speaks of power and influence. I would estimate him to be in his early forties, the touch of gray at his temples making him look distinguished rather than weak. His blue eyes are as shrewd and sharp as the lines of his tailored black suit, and his diamond cufflinks sparkle when he extends his hand.
“Michael Stromberg,” he says, his polite yet distant voice cutting into the tense silence.
I don’t hurry to reach him. I saunter slowly across the marble and stop closer to Weatherly. I reach out and cut my palm across his, giving it a hard squeeze and two sharp pumps before releasing it. When I retrieve my hand, I have to cross my arms over my chest to keep from drawing Weatherly against my side like I want to do.
“Tag Barton. What brings you to Chiara, Mr. Stromberg?” I ask boldly. I have no right to question anyone, of course, but I don’t give a damn.
“I’m here to see Weatherly,” he replies, his statement as much a challenge as it is an answer.
I glance down at the woman in question, the one who is now looking up at me with panic in her eyes. The quiet grows around me. It snaps and snarls and writhes with antagonism from Stromberg and supplication from Weatherly.