Method(30)

“Not yet, I’m doing a presentation,” I say, covering my pears with the plastic lid.

He puts his palms up. “Sorry.”

“I went to a lot of effort to put this together,” I chide.

He bows his head with a smirk. “And I’m grateful, I assure you.”

Rolling my eyes, I can’t help my smile. “Are you going to take this seriously?”

“I will, I am,” he clears his throat. “Promise.”

“Okay,” I say, sipping the last of the spilled grapes and corking the bottle.

“This might be more to your liking.”

I pour a touch of my new selection into his glass. “This is a rosé from the Allegretto Vineyard, that’s in Paso Robles. The vineyard is only three hours from here and happens to be one of my favorite places in the world. Rosé wines are made when red grape skins are left in contact with the wine for a brief time, allowing a little color to be imparted but not as much as for red wine. This particular brand is a little less dry, and I think that’s what you’re having trouble with. It’s got hints of melon and berry.” I look up to see I’m being watched. Needles of adrenaline prick my skin as I begin to succumb to the draw and realize we’re both gravitating toward the other with each second that passes.

I go on nervously pouring him a taste, and he takes it eyeing my offering before his attention shifts back to me. As nervous as I am to have his audience, it’s equally enthralling. “You know there’s a reason wine has been used in celebrations for thousands of years. It’s magical in a way.” I glance over to see him studying my lips. “Something drawn from earth, plucked at its peak and aged for just the right moment. It’s symbolic.”

I’m helpless to his gaze and get lost in his depths as I try to find my words. I fail, my whole body heated. Instead, I pluck a pear from the container with an appetizer fork and press it against his lips. “Take a bite of this,” I say, and he takes a healthy nibble never taking his eyes off of me. “Now, sip.”

He concedes.

I raise a brow. “Well?”

“It’s good.”

“Good,” I repeat in his tone, slightly disheartened. “Okay, well I have one other—”

“Seriously, Mila?” He cuts me off with a chuckle before he moves to sit. My heart sputters in my chest as he reaches for my face, frames it with warm hands and draws me toward him. “How long are you going to ignore this?”

“Wha…” I’m visibly shaking with evidence that I’m not oblivious to what he’s talking about. And here we are again, in the same pregnant pause we’ve been at a dozen or more times since we met. Without thinking, I catch the rogue drop of wine that sits on his bottom lip with my tongue and hear a low groan. I close my eyes and let it melt. “Exactly,” leaves his throat just before he captures my lips and his flavor coats my tongue. Going lax, I sink into his kiss, our tongues sliding against each other. He commands my mouth, tilting my head with steady hands, so I open for him and he deepens our kiss to a level I wasn’t expecting. I whimper, gripping his hands on the side of my face as he plunges, carefully flicking his tongue in all corners, seeking, and finding me willing before we sync into perfect rhythm. He kisses me until we’re both panting, chests heaving with want. When he finally pulls away, he leaves his hands where they are, his fingers gently stroking my cheeks. It’s the kind of kiss that can get you in trouble because you don’t pause, you go straight to the source again for whatever it will give you. And we do, we lean in again to connect, all rational thought flying out the window.

He’s good at it. Too good. And my only thought is more. I’m floating high with him, the intoxicating thrusts of his tongue dizzying me to the point of recklessness. When he closes the kiss, he keeps his hold on me, his lips lingering so close I feel all the breath of his words.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve never tasted anything that good,” he whispers.

I shake my head in his hands. “You still hate the wine.”

“I’m a changed man,” he assures me, pressing his lips again softly to mine before he lets me go. “I don’t need a taste of anything else.”

“That’s quite a compliment, even if it’s complete bullshit,” I muse, still electrified with what just happened. I’m proud of myself for being able to keep it together.

“Mila,” he whispers gruffly as wetness gathers at my core. I’m soaked, and it only took a kiss. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”

“Oh, I feel it, Mr. Hollywood, but you need to slow down, or you’re going to give me the wrong idea.”

He lifts a shoulder, his eyes alight with something I can’t make out. “Think whatever you want. I know what I think.”

“What’s that?”

“I think this became a date,” he whispers, lifting his thumb and tracing my lower lip.

“It was always a date.”

“Right about that,” he says, leaning in again to capture my lower lip. Clit pulsing, I press myself against him, taking his kiss and threading my fingers into his thick hair. We taste and tease for endless minutes, our tongues growing urgent as he slides his hands down my body and pulls me closer to him. We’re making out like teenagers, glued to each other in an exploration of hands and meshing tongues. When the ache between my thighs grows unbearable, I pull away and sit across from him on the edge of the blanket putting some much-needed space between us. I’m already in over my head with Lucas Walker.