I kissed my way back up to her breasts and stilled. “Is this okay?”
“More than okay. I need you.”
When I finally slid inside her, we both groaned. I held still for a moment, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing hard.
“You feel—” I started.
“So do you.”
I moved, and she wrapped her legs around me, forcing me deeper. We found our rhythm—slow at first, then faster. Her eyes never left mine, and I couldn’t look away.
“Stay with me,” I said, because I could feel her starting to spiral, starting to retreat behind her walls even now. “Right here. Your eyes on mine.”
She kissed me, pouring everything she couldn’t say into it.
When she came the second time, she yelled my name. Not Kick.Rascon.I followed moments later.
We lay tangled together afterward, the sweat cooling on our skin. My hand cupped her pussy, resting there possessively.
“That was—” she started.
“Yeah.” I pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “It was.”
After that, the pretense disappeared.
We stopped pretendingwe had separate bedrooms. Our days took on a rhythm that felt like something I’d been waiting for my whole life.
I woke every morning with Isabel in my arms. Her back against my chest, my hand on her stomach, and her hair tickling my chin. Sometimes, we’d make slow and lazy love again. Sometimes, we’d just lie there, talking about nothing, her body warm against mine.
I made breakfast while she showered. Eggs, toast, fruit—nothing complicated. But every time I handed her a plate and sat beside her, she looked at me like I’d given her something special. It made me wonder what her mornings had been like before. Were traysdelivered by staff trained to be invisible? Food appearing without warmth or conversation? Probably.
That wasn’t going to be our life. Not if I had anything to say about it.
We workedside by side in the tiny living room, day after day, fine-tuning the proposal for Thomas.
“What do you think about calling it the 1934 Society?” I asked one afternoon.
“Calling what that?”
“The premium tier. It was the year Thomas’s grandfather founded the winery. It lends itself to the storytelling angle.”
“I like it.” She typed it into the document. “Exclusive without being pretentious.”
“Like you.”
She threw a pillow at me. I caught it, laughing.
The life we were building was exactly what I wanted. Not just the sex—though it was incredible—but this. A partnership. Someone who challenged me, who thought differently than I did, who made everything better just by being in the room.
I caught myself imagining it sometimes. Years of this. A house full of chaos and noise, the way I’d grownup. Kids running through the vineyard. Isabel’s laugh echoing through the halls.
Then I’d shut the thought down, because it was too soon. Because she wasn’t there yet. Because pushing her would only make her run.
But the following day, I’d find myself thinking about it all over again.
Friday evening, I made dinner. A real dinner—chicken with an herb sauce, roasted vegetables, and bread I’d picked up from a bakery in town. When Isabel came into the kitchen, I lifted her onto the counter so she could watch me work.
“My dad used to do this,” I said, stirring the sauce. “He’d take over the kitchen every Sunday afternoon. My mom would sit with him and watch. He wouldn’t let her lift a finger. The rest of us would either help or stay out of the way.”
