If I Were You(78)

The window between us and the driver slowly lowers but I am behind the driver and cannot see what he looks like unless I twist and look back. I suck in a breath as Chris’s hand slides under my dress and settles on my bare thigh, his fingers splaying intimately around my leg.

“I’m Eric, Mr. Merit,” the driver announces. “I’ll be your guide today. Are we still touring the vineyard, sir?”

“We are,” Chris replies. “I’m eager to show Ms. McMillan how Chateau Cellar produces a wine to rival the best in Paris.” He glances down at me, his green eyes dancing with enough heat to scorch the seat, while his reply is somehow matter-of-fact. “Chateau established Napa Valley as the wine industry it is today. In a blind test in Paris in 1976, the judges, biased to their own wineries, chose one of the Chateau’s wines.”

A tray lowers in front of us, but all I can think about is Chris’s fingers caressing lazily beneath my skirt. A bottle of wine and two glasses appears and Eric quickly explains, “It’s a 2002 Chateau Cabernet Sauvignon, one of our flagship wines, and a gift from our owners to you and Ms. McMillan, Mr. Merit, for your long-term support of our operation.”

Chris leans forward and fills two glasses, never taking his hand from my leg. “I’ll be sure and extend them heartfelt thanks.”

He lifts his glass and sips the wine, before holding it to my mouth. “Try it.” He gently urges my legs a bit further apart and I do not have wine on my mind.

The limo engine rumbles and we begin to move. My heart is thundering in my ears. “Chris,” I plead and I am not sure if I am asking him to touch me or asking him to stop. Both I think.

“Drink, Sara,” he orders softly, no give in his voice. He is in control, still teaching me that lesson. The driver is close, so very close, and he fully intends to take this farther than I want. He’s pushing me out of my comfort zone, testing me again, I think. Testing me. He is always testing me and I am not sure what the scorecard is or even what I’m trying to achieve.

I drink from the same spot that Chris has drunk from and taste the sweet plum flavor. Chris’s fingers brush my sex and I barely manage to swallow the wine.

“How is it?” he asks.

“Good,” I whisper.

“Just good?” he challenges, and his finger strokes my sensitive flesh. “Try another swallow.”

There is a edge of danger in the air; the risk of the driver catching us is all too obvious. I have never done anything like this in public and it frightens me, but what is most shocking is how it excites me.

I sip the blood-red liquid and Chris’s finger slides inside me. My gaze goes to the seat in front of me, but I cannot see the driver and he cannot see me. Though I feel as if he can.

Chris drinks from the glass again and then holds it to my lips. “Another,” he commands softly, tersely.

He isn’t going to allow me to escape this car without having his way with me. Of this, I am certain. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to be the girl who never lived in the moment. Alive, I’d told him, about what he makes me feel, and he does. I take the glass from him and down it.

He laughs low in his throat. “A little liquid courage?”

“Yes,” I confess.

“Is the wine satisfactory?” Eric calls out.

Chris sets the glass down, still teasing me mercilessly. “Is the wine satisfactory, Ms. McMillan?”

I glower at him through the thralls of near orgasm, my voice throaty and affected. “It’s…exceptional.”

“Excellent,” Eric approves jovially. “We’re approaching the entry to the vineyards now.” He begins telling us about the history of the territory, but I do not comprehend his words. It is all I can do not to moan as Chris’s thumb teases my clit and he slides a second finger inside me. The ache inside me expands and blossoms. I am going to have an orgasm in a limo with the driver practically watching. This can’t be happening.

“If you look to your right, you’ll see an important piece of the chateau’s history, Ms. McMillan,” Eric says. “Do you see the pond?”

“Yes,” I manage in a choked voice without looking. My body clenches around Chris’s fingers and spasms. My teeth sink into my lip and I turn to the window to hide my face, for fear Eric might glance at me in his rear-view mirror. He’s still speaking, telling me a story. I am oblivious to anything but the shattering of my body.

“Isn’t it a wonderful story?” Eric asks, wrapping up whatever he’d been saying.

“Yes,” I manage again, capable of speech but barely. “It’s delightful.”