We enter a stairwell surrounded by stone walls and begin our descent. “Dinner guests for the rehearsal will arrive in ten minutes. Elliot is currently safely with his mother. Seating will now take an additional fifteen to seventeen minutes. Social niceties allow for up to four additional minutes before it becomes awkward that we have not arrived. This isn’t adequate time to go up to our room. It is, however, thirty minutes we can spend alone.”
She freezes, then glances around. “In a basement?”
“The wine cellar. There’s a tasting room down here.” I hold up and shake the key ring. “I’m going to enjoy my tasting.”
She resumes walking behind me as I continue down the stairs slowly, walking sideways to support her should she need it, a step at a time.
“You’re sure no one will catch us?” she asks.
“How would anyone catch us?”
Franki’s laugh echoes softly off the stone walls. “That’s what people say right before they get caught.”
“That’s for people who don’t plan efficiently.”
“But, why are we sneaking off?”
“I promised you three orgasms today. I’m already so far behind schedule that I’ve had to acknowledge three are unrealistic, unless we count multiple within one session, which, obviously, I don’t. That’s cheating.”
She gnaws on the corner of her lip. “We don’t always have to stick to the exact plan we started with.”
“We don’t. But we can stick with this one.” We reach the bottom of the stairs and traverse down a short corridor to another heavy wooden door. I gesture her forward with a flourish. “Behold. Phase One: Infiltration.”
She peers into the cool, dim wine cellar. The air smells of oak and dust and faint fermentation. Racks of bottles line the walls like orderly little soldiers. At the far end, a small tasting room sits behind a glass partition, furnished with two narrow tables and four wooden stools, clearly intended for serious discussions of tannins and mouthfeel.
Franki steps inside, her cane tapping softly on the stone. “This feels illicit,” she says with a smile.
“Correct,” I agree, pleased.
I close the door and turn the heavy key in the lock with a decisive click of the old-fashioned mechanism.
“Mission integrity achieved,” I say. “In case you’re worried, there are no security cameras down here.”
Franki’s eyes widen. “We’re really going to . . . screw . . . in a wine cellar before the rehearsal dinner?”
I pretend to be offended. “Of course not. We’re going to make love with you bent over a table receiving my deep”—I echo her meaningful pause—“affectionfrom behind.”
She gives a shiver, her nipples visibly hardening under her dress.
I guide her into the tasting room. She looks up at me, her cheeks already pink and her whiskey eyes bright. The dim light catches the red of her dress, turning it wine dark.
She looks me over in blatant appreciation. “You know, most people would use this time to talk.”
“I can do that too. I’ll see to your every need.” I drop a kiss on her lips. “Physical.” Kiss. “Emotional.” Kiss. “Spiritual.”
“Spiritual?” she asks doubtfully.
“I’m counting all the times you yell, ‘Oh God, Henry, yes,’” I say smugly.
She laughs, just as I intended.
I remove my glasses and set them carefully on the table because I am not an animal.
Placing my hands on her hips, I lean in, slowly, deliberately giving her time to tell me if she doesn’t want this. Semi-public sex is definitely new for us.
Her fingers curl into my lapels, tugging me closer. Her laughter dissolves into the familiar soft sigh of desire I know and love. I kiss her thoroughly, the way I’ve been wanting to do all day.
Her mouth is soft and sweet, and her tongue sends a jolt of lust that goes straight to the base of my spine, then floods through me.
