My breathing turned staccato. The edges of my vision darkened, and I fought to keep calm as his words left me squirming. We were in a cave. I had no phone signal. Nobody could hear me scream.
“I don’t have a G-spot, and when I said ‘straight dicks,’ I meant non-queer ones. They’re dangerous.” I glanced down again; I couldn’t help it. “Curved?”
“I’d offer a show-and-tell, but judging by the way you’re hyperventilating, that’s gonna be number seven hundred on our list.” Nolan stroked my hair, and it was oddly soothing. “I’m scared too,” he said softly.
“Why? My vagina doesn’t have teeth.”
“I’m scared of losing you again. That if I say or do the wrong thing, you’ll get on an airplane and disappear.”
“Sometimes, it’s tempting,” I admitted.
“Well, if you do fly off into the sunset, know this. I love you. I’ve always loved you, even if that love has evolved into something very different between then and now. You’re a pain in my ass, a thorn in my side, and a shackle around my heart, and if you leave, you’ll take a piece of me with you.”
I stared at him. That was so…so eloquent. Levi had been the artist in Blackstone House, the painter and the poet, but Nolan had just outclassed him.
And me.
Because what the hell did I say to that?
“Kiss me again,” I whispered.
Nolan studied me for the longest moment before he dipped his head, but instead of going for my lips, he feathered soft kisses along my jaw. Across my forehead. Over my cheeks. I wrapped my legs around his waist and gripped his shoulders and breathed him in. Did I really have to go to Japan?
Nolan rested his forehead against mine, palms on the table, arms caging me in. But instead of feeling trapped, I felt protected.
“More,” I demanded.
“Not tonight.” He picked up the abandoned Syrah and swirled again, this time keeping the wine in the glass, then held it to my lips. “Tell me what you taste.”
“Blueberry? Plum?”
“And?”
I took another sip. “Chocolate? The aftertaste is spicy. Pepper?”
“Good girl.”
Another flash of heat seared through me. Was this how dating worked? You ping-ponged back and forth between terror and exhilaration before you lit up like a firework or crashed and burned?
“Why does the wine taste different each year?” I choked out.
“The weather’s unpredictable. The profile changes as it ages. The winemaker decides to experiment.” Nolan rested a hand on my thigh. “I’m big on experimenting.”
“I’m not.” When his fingers crept upward, I sucked in a sharp breath. “People change too, though.”
Nolan chuckled softly and straightened. Since I was still wrapped around him like a baby octopus, I went along for the ride.
“C’mon, I’ll show you the difference between a damn good vintage wine and the grape juice it starts as.”
“Wait, what about the foreplay?”
“I’m testing your limits, and I’m not going to risk breaking them. I want you whispering my name in your sleep, not cursing my existence as you hurl a wine bottle in my direction. Hold these.” He put two long-stemmed glasses into my hand. “Next time, you’ll kiss me.”
Holy Toledo, he was still hard, and the tip of his dick rubbed against me as he walked. The effect was…monumental. Not just the size, but the fact that it felt delicious rather than disturbing.
Nolan turned out most of the lights, and I clung to him as he walked confidently through dimly lit passages to the winery. Equipment hummed, and the huge fermenters gleamed all around like giant sentries. He set me on my feet.
My legs were trembling, but not in a bad way.
