Taste (Cloverleigh Farms, #7)(28)

I walked over to the window. Standing right behind her, I caught the scent of her hair again. It looked so soft and warm, I had the urge to bury my face in it. Or maybe take it in my hands and push it aside so I could press my lips to the back of her neck. I’d done that once before . . . did she remember? The crotch of my jeans started to get tight.

“God, it doesn’t even look real, does it?” she whispered in awe.

I forced myself to look out the glass. “No. It doesn’t.”

Everything was covered in white—the cars in the lot, the pavement, the trees, the neon sign. It was eerie.

“Do you think we’ll get out of here by morning?” Ellie asked.

“We’ll try.” Right now I was more worried about making it through the night next to her in that small bed and keeping my hands to myself.

Letting the curtain close, she spun to face me, her eyes worried. “What if we don’t?”

“We’ll be okay no matter what.”

“But what about work? Desmond could cover for me at the winery, but who’s going to—”

“Hush.” I put my finger on her lips. “We’ll figure it out.”

She nodded, but I didn’t take my finger off her mouth. Instead, I thought about the way she’d sucked the melted butter off my thumb earlier tonight, and my cock swelled even more. Her lips fell open slightly, but a second later she pushed my hand away. “Move.”

I stepped aside and she shuffled past me, still trying to keep that stupid blanket wrapped around her. But no sooner had the door shut than it opened again, and she walked out, tossed the plaid blanket on the bed, and faced me, hands on her hips. “I give up. This is what I look like without pants on.”

The hem of my sweater hit her mid-thigh and she still wore her hedgehog socks, so the only bare skin visible was from her shins to just above her knees.

“Is that what you’re going to wear in the velvet blimp?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I might change my mind and ask for some compensation. Those socks are not sexy.”

But as soon as the bathroom door shut behind her, I had to adjust the growing bulge in my pants and take a few deep breaths.

I could handle this, right? I could lie next to her on that tiny little mattress and go to sleep. I could breathe through my mouth so I wouldn’t smell her. I could face the opposite direction so I wouldn’t see her. I could put the pillow over my head so I wouldn’t hear her breathe. I could pin my hands between my knees to keep them from wandering over to her side. It might be the greatest test of willpower in all my life, and I’d probably only earn a C, possibly a C-, but I could pass it.

Except then she came out of the bathroom with her blouse balled up in her hands, and when she tossed it onto the table by the window, her black bra flew out and landed on the floor.

“Wait, we’re allowed to remove undergarments?” I asked in mock surprise. “Does that mean I can ditch my boxer briefs?”

“Only if they have underwire.” She quickly scooped up the bra and stuffed it into her shoulder bag.

“They do not.”

“Then keep them on.” She sat on the bed again and rummaged through the snack pile. “What’s our second bottle of wine? I’ll find something to pair it with.”

But I was frozen in place. It hit me that she was wearing my sweater with nothing underneath it.

That was so hot.

Granted, it was only my sweater and not my hands against her skin, but my body reacted as if it couldn’t tell the difference. And the way she was sitting with her knees jutting out gave me a glimpse of her underwear—it was also black, and I stared at it like a middle school boy salivating over a centerfold. Were they cotton? Satin? Lace? What would they feel like beneath my fingertips? Against my lips? Under my tongue?

I swallowed hard, a groan trapped in my throat.

“Gianni?” She looked over at me, and I quickly raised my eyes to her face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I hurried over to the kitchenette and opened another bottle of wine without even reading the label. It didn’t matter what it was—I just needed more alcohol to numb this attraction to her, this awareness of her body, so I didn’t do anything stupid.

With my back to her, I lifted the wine to my mouth and took a long drink straight from the bottle.





Round Two of Truth or Drink commenced with Ellie relaxed and mellow and me uptight and anxious—a complete reversal of our usual roles.

I started with a non-dirty question on purpose. “What smell takes you back to childhood?”

“Hmm.” She thought for a moment. “I have a crazy sensitive nose, so I can think of lots of things, but one smell I always loved was the scent that hits you when you open a fresh box of crayons.”

I laughed. “That’s so you.”

“I can’t help it. They’re all lined up and perfectly sharpened and the entire box just bursts with possibility . . .” She inhaled, her eyes closing blissfully, as if she had a brand new Crayola box in her hands and not a wineglass. “What about you?”

“Two things—the smell of Bolognese simmering will always remind me of my Great-Grandma Lupo’s house. And the smell of Middle Eastern spices always reminds me of my Lebanese grandmother’s house.”