If I Were You (Inside Out #1)(67)

Impressed with his knowledge, I ask a lot of questions as we eat. “How do you know so much about wine?”

There is a slight crackle to the air, a subtle tension. “My father was a connoisseur of wine to an extreme and as you’ve notice, despite my preferences otherwise, wine and art meld together quite frequently.”

His father. I sense tension in him when his father is brought up and I’m fairly certain he is also why Chris prefers beer over wine.

“Your car has arrived, Mr. Merit,” the waiter announces, appearing by our table.

“We’ll be right out,” Chris replies. “Charge the room for the tab.”

I’m surprised by this news. “You aren’t driving?”

“Easier to enjoy the wine with a sober driver to drive us back to the room.” Chris pushes to his feet and walks over to me, pulling my chair out and helping me to my feet. Suddenly, I am pressed against him, his hand molding me to his body, and he adds softly, “Easier to enjoy you.”

***

We step outside and I am reminded of how two hours of travel can drastically impact the weather. Where San Francisco has the chilly late August wind off the ocean, Calistoga, which is the Napa region we are in, does not.

A limo is parked in front of the doorway and it doesn’t surprise me to learn it’s for us. While I’ve never attended a wine tour, I’m aware the limo ride between wineries is fairly common. What isn’t common is the bellman handing me a neatly folded and delicately beaded cream-colored shawl.

“In case you get cold, ma’am. I understand you need a coat for your trip back to the city as well. We’ll have that waiting for you in your room. The city does get quite chilly.”

“Thank you.” Relief washes over me at the sight of the garment despite what I guess to be the eighty-degree temperature. Inside the winery, I fear there will air conditioning, and my braless state will draw unwanted attention.

Chris smirks at the look on my face and I lift my chin defiantly and slide the shawl around my shoulders before climbing into a car with strangers.

“Ready?” he asks when I’m well-bundled.

“Ready.”

The bellman opens the car door and I slide to the far window seat to find I am alone until Chris joins me. He settles in next to me and the door shuts behind him. “Will there be others joining us?” I ask.

“Just us,” Chris informs me and I wonder why I imagined he would have it any other way. He has money and self-proclaimed desire for privacy.

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.