Brave Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #3)(13)
“Isn’t it a little early for wine?”
I straighten and hold out my hand as I smile down at her. “It’s never too early for wine.”
“You sound like my father,” she says, closing her book and sliding her fingers over my palm.
“I sound like a winemaker.”
“That you do.”
SEVEN
Weatherly
Tag is a masculine force to be reckoned with. Dear God, when his attention is concentrated so solely on me, I find it hard to think about anything except him. The way his eyes seem lighter when he laughs. The way he glances at my lips when I talk and then licks his own, like he’s thinking of tasting me. The way he tilts his head to one side when he’s considering something I’ve said. The way he touches his palm to my lower back when we move from one place to another. Everything about him has this magnetic quality to it—his voice, his eyes, his laugh, his smile—and I’m drawn. Attracted. Fascinated, even though I’m still trying not to be.
I was ready to run recklessly into something with him. It felt immediately right and wild and rebellious. But when Amber showed up last night . . . well, that put things into perspective for me. While I might want to be a casual Amber kind of girl for a few weeks, the reality is that I’m not. I don’t like to share and I don’t like the idea of being worn for a day and then tossed aside. Maybe it’s my breeding. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. Maybe it’s my lack of a more normal childhood. I don’t know, but there are limits to how much caution I can throw to the wind and still be able to live with myself. Last night, I found the first limit.
Still yet, I find myself increasingly willing to believe what Tag said—that he didn’t even think of Amber last night. Not only do I want to believe it, I can relate to it. He has occupied a staggering amount of my brain space since he appeared in the bathroom door yesterday. Despite all that awaits me back in my Atlanta reality, I’ve thought mostly of him. Of this intriguing man and why he makes me feel the way he does.
“So that’s why I thought maybe these would nicely complement the other varieties that we grow and bottle here,” Tag says. “This grape is hardy, well-suited for this climate. And the wine is light and aromatic, an interesting addition to our bolder ones. Sometimes bold is what we need, but other times, a lighter touch is necessary.” As he speaks, he watches me with eyes that have turned a stormy gray. Without looking away, he takes a single grape from the tray behind him. I watch, hypnotized by the velvet of his voice, as he rolls the grape between the pads of his fingers. “This fruit is firm and supple. The flavor exquisite. My mouth waters just thinking about it.” Lightly squeezing, always rolling. My nipples pucker to stinging points within the confines of my lacy bra, almost as though he’s rolling them between his nimble fingertips.
My eyes follow the plump grape as he lifts it to his mouth and slips it between his sculpted lips. I can practically feel the pop as the skin bursts and juice floods his mouth. His soft moan vibrates in the air around me, tingling over my skin, nearly triggering an answering rumble within me.
“Delicious,” he whispers, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small grin as he chews. I drag my eyes up to his to find them sparkling down at me. “I bet you’re dying for a taste, aren’t you?” A blush stings my cheeks. He knows exactly what he just did to me, damn him!
“Isn’t that what you brought me out here for? A taste?”
God, the innuendo . . . it makes my blood bubble right inside my veins.
“Indeed,” he replies, unmoving, always watching. “I don’t want to move from this spot yet, though.”
“And why is that?”
“The way the light is pouring into your hair, the way it shines on half your face, you look . . . ethereal.”
Air seems to swell in my chest, like a shiny red balloon slowly inflating, making it hard to breathe.
“Are those grapes to blame for your sweet tongue?” I ask a little breathily.
“You are to blame. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman more striking, more captivating.”
We are standing no more than a foot apart and I’d swear that I can actually feel the gravity of him pulling me closer, begging me to sway in his direction. I stand up straighter, plant my feet firmer.
“I thought you might prefer blondes.”
I regret the words the instant they leave my mouth. We were enjoying each other’s company. Why did I have to go and ruin it?
Only it doesn’t seem that I did. As he assured me that he didn’t last night, Tag doesn’t seem to give Amber even a passing thought. “I prefer you. Not brunettes or redheads or blondes or anyone so . . . general. What I prefer, what I want, is an exotic, dark-haired beauty who tempts me before she pushes me away, who tells me no with her lips and yes with her eyes. What I want is everything that’s within arm’s reach and all that is a thousand miles out of my grasp.”
My heart is thumping wildly inside the bony confines of my ribs—a butterfly desperate to break free of her ivory cage. “She might not be so exotic once you get to know her. She might just be a sterling pedigree and nothing more.”
“I don’t care about the pedigree. To hell with pedigrees.”
“In my world, they’re all that matter.”