I let Tate go first, mostly so I can watch how his hips move as he walks. Sue me. I’ve always had a thing for older men. Not that Tate is that much older; it’s probably the perfect gap for me.
We sit under the shady trees in weathered wooden Adirondack chairs surrounding a stone fire pit. The woman quickly disappears as we settle ourselves in. Tate carefully removes his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into the pocket of his linen button-down. His eyes sweep the rolling hills, and a small smile tugs at his plush pink lips. When my gaze snaps up to his, I find him already looking back at me with a considering, weighty look to his gaze.
This definitely feels like a first date.
No, it feels like a second date. Last night under the stars, that brief encounter felt like a first date. I don’t believe in love at first sight, not even at first attraction, but when I look at Tate, I feel like I already know him. How do I explain that?
Our eyes stay locked, some strange electricity passing through us without even a single word exchanged. Cecilia’s return with a flight of wine breaks our gaze and ruins the charged moment. Not her fault, though. She carefully walks us through each different Chianti, then disappears back toward the building behind us with a knowing smile.
Tate clears his throat softly as he wraps his fingers around the glass of wine. I watch, wholly entranced, as he lifts the glass to his mouth to take a small, careful sip of the dark, almost purple wine. The wine stains his lips briefly before his tongue peeks out to sweep it away. My gut tightens as I watch him, my fingers curling into the weathered wood of the chair beneath me.When Tate sips his wine, my heart feels like it will take off into outer space. I wonder if Tate is feeling what I’m feeling. Or am I in this all alone?
Tate drinks half the glass before seemingly remembering we’re supposed to share. He holds the glass out to me without a word. Our fingers brush when I take the glass, and a small gasp escapes Tate’s lips. He watches me with his mouth parted as I lift the glass to my own mouth, placing my lips over the exact spot where his rested. An indirect kiss. We repeat this process until the flight of wine is gone, leaving Tate’s cheeks slightly flushed from the combination of the Tuscan sun and the wine settled in our bellies.
I stand slowly and hold my hand out to him. His palm is warm and solid in mine. Out of the shade from the tree, the heat bleeds deeper into my bones. The atmosphere, the wine, and Tate’s company thrill me in a way I’ve never felt before. As we approach the vines, Tate’s grip tightens on mine.
Tucked among the vines now, I spin to look down at him. My breath catches in my chest at the look on his face. Despair, fear, mixed with an odd tinge of want. I’ve not even known him for twenty-four hours, and I already hate that expression.
“Sully, I can’t…”
I squeeze his hand softly as he thinks over his words. I stay quiet, not wanting to rush him to speak. I sweep my thumb over his knuckles every so often, and he only just notices when his gaze pings down to our entwined fingers.
“It’s a week in Tuscany,” Tate points out, sounding sad.
“How about a little fling?”
Tate’s eyes flick between mine. “A fling?”
I nod slowly as I step closer to him. “Just a little fling.”
Tate’s breathing picks up, his gaze still locked on mine as I brush my fingers against his warm neck. I brush my thumbs over the soft fuzz of his beard as I curl my fingers tighter around theback of his neck. My other hand is still tangled with his, so I lift his hand up to my shoulder, letting go so that his rests over my T-shirt which is slowly dotting with sweat in the warm air.
“What do you say?”
“Bailey and Olivia…”
Oh. “You don’t want them to know?”
Tate shakes his head sharply. “It’s not that… I can’t mess up their wedding. No distractions.”
“I get it.” I dip down a little closer until I can almost taste the wine on his breath. “No drama. Just a little fling, some fun before we return to real life in the States. Okay?”
Tate thinks about it for a few seconds before lifting up on his tiptoes to press his lips against mine. Oh, it’s like a lightning strike to my heart. Folding my other arm around his waist, I tug him closer until our bodies fit snugly against each other. Something about Tate’s kiss feels so familiar, like getting into bed after a long day. I lift my hands to cup his cheeks, my fingers finding purchase behind his ears to tug him closer as I devour his mouth. Tate all but goes limp against me. Little moans of pleasure leave him just as he seems to remember himself.
Slowly pulling away from me, he pauses just far enough to blink his dark brown eyes at me. He’s not much shorter; I’m just abnormally tall and large. It makes me a good football player but often makes hooking up hard, as not every guy wants to be with someone roughly the size of a giant. Tate’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before he lifts his hand to brush the tips of his fingers against my forehead, moving my wavy locks out of my eyes.
“That was the kind of kiss they sing about in love songs,” Tate admits softly.
“You’re a good kisser.” I dip down to steal one last lingering kiss. “So, a fling?”
Tate blinks slowly as if acclimating to a new world. “Sure, a fling.”
