Dazed (Connections, #2.5)(29)

His eyes dart to my hand and he grabs it fast as sin. He brings it to his lips and kisses the back of it. “Fortunately for you, I found it to be just as disgusting as you did, so I can promise you we won’t be tasting that again. Now, olive paté, that’s fair game.”

I wrinkle my nose and he settles my hand on his thigh—I like it there.

“I saw that,” he says with a grin, as he turns the car to the right and slows down.

“I may stick with the wine half of the sign,” I say in a raspy voice.

The deserted winding canyon road seems to go on for miles before he suddenly pulls the car off to the side.

“Everything okay?” I ask, somewhat alarmed.

With the car in park, he leans over the console and presses his hard body against mine. His soft lips kiss along the tender skin of my neck and once they find my lips, our tongues entwine in the most erotic dance. Breathless, he sits back in his seat. “Everything is fine. I just realized I hadn’t kissed you in a while.”

I touch my fingers to my burning lips as the ache that erupted in my body moments ago centralizes in one place. I look around at the vast nothingness that surrounds us and wonder if it’s really possible to have sex in a car. But he’s back on the road before I can suggest the possibility.

The town is quaint—bed and breakfasts, boutiques, and restaurants line the street. He parallel parks between an old dented pickup truck and a shiny black Mercedes. The flower-and-cactus-filled Spanish-style patio of the restaurant is full, but we decide to wait for an outdoor table. Once we’re seated, we order margaritas—one classic and one apricot. After a quick glance at the menu, he looks up.

“The Puebla-style chicken is cooked over a red oak fire. What do you say we both try that?”

My eyes zero in on it and the words sausage and bananas make my stomach turn. “Did you read what it’s made with?”

“Yes, the splash of sherry sold me.”

I roll my eyes. “You are attracted to the foods with alcohol with them.”

“No, I’m attracted to what’s good,” he growls in my ear, setting my already heated body aflame.

Since grilled salmon isn’t on the menu, I concede and decide to try it.

Once we’ve eaten, we spend the afternoon browsing the shops. One shop sells intensely flavored, Tuscan-style oils. Jagger lifts a small piece of bread dipped in oil to my mouth. “Just try this. I promise it’s delicious.”

I take a very small bite and the pepper infused in it has a bite that only leaves me wanting more. I take the cup from his hand and a small piece of bread from the basket on the table. “I’ll finish that,” I say.

His sly grin curves up wider. “I told you you’d like it. I know what you like.”

His words grab me and again that feeling overtakes me—the feeling that I know I love this man.

At the end of the old-fashioned street is a small winery—like the one I saw in the ad. A sign above the door reads, “Rh?nes.” A bell jingles as Jagger swings open the door. I look up at the scruff on his face and graze my hand down it as I pass by. The small room is filled with people and wine—red at one end and white at the other. Upon passing through the second door, we approach a long narrow set of rickety stairs. Jagger laces his fingers in mine and keeps hold of me with his strong grip, as his orange shoelaces guide our way down. When we enter the wine cellar, Jagger pays the admission and is handed a small clipboard with a list of wines and a pencil. I’m immediately drawn to the word organic and stop at the table labeled “C?tes de Tablas.” Open bottles of wine line the table with small, already poured glasses surrounding them. We each take a glass and sip it. The wine is a dark red, rich, balanced, and delicious.

I crane my head back as he stands beside me. “Rh?ne style wines are my favorite.”

He tastes his sample again. “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” I say in mock exasperation.

Impersonating the customer who was just minutes ago standing in front of us, he describes the attributes he likes about it in a deep stern voice. “It’s extremely juicy and the taste reflects the lime-stone rich soil . . .”

I kick his shin with the heel of my shoe. “Stop it,” I whisper.

He sets his cup down and his hands are on my hips. “What? I’m just commenting on the wine. I thought you liked it when I recite random facts.”

His warm breath cascades down my cheek and I lean my head against his shoulder. “I do, but only when they’re yours.”

Clutching my hip bones tighter, he says, “I don’t know any random facts about wines.”

I escape his embrace, as my need for him turns painful, and grab his hand. “Come on, then, let’s go learn some.”

Two hours and way too much wine later, we are at our final tasting. Our clipboard is loaded with at least a dozen selections for purchase and we are sampling the whitest of whites.

“Mmmm . . . sweet and delicious,” I say, maybe a little too provocatively for being in a public place.

His hands are around my waist, and when he doesn’t drop his grip to taste it, I swivel my hips and put the glass to his lips. He bends down, “Mmmm . . . sweet and delicious just like you.”

His accent is much more noticeable with alcohol in his system. When he dips the tip of his tongue in my ear and pulls me against him, I gasp. His hard cock presses into my back. The room is dark and crowded and I wish we were alone.