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By the time we’re back to his house, I’m feeling a bit wrung out, but I don’t say anything to Ben. After he takes a shower and changes clothes, he leaves for his meeting with a promise he’ll be back as soon as he can be. I wander around the house for a bit, not really settling on anything to do. I don’t want to read; I don’t want to watch a movie. I sure as hell don’t want to touch my phone because it’s got to be blowing up with a million texts and notifications by now. I’m not ready for the real world to intrude yet.
I head out to my car. I’ve got a little emergency pack tucked away in a secret compartment. It’s not like I’m going to take anything. Honestly, I don’t need to. Once I’ve got that little plastic bag tucked into the front pocket of my jeans, I feel better. Like I know it’s there if I need it. But I’m not going to need it. I swear. Not now that I’ve got Ben.
Ben
This day certainly did not go the way I expected when I woke up this morning. Not by a long shot. However, as much as I want to stay in my house with Dillon, there are things that do need to go as planned. The meeting I’m heading to is to finalize my purchase of the land next to mine, and I’m eager to get it over and done with so Winston and I can make good on our hunch.
This whole thing started last year when one of the million dogs my employees bring to work with them came trotting into the barrel room with the mankiest piece of wood I’ve ever seen. Winston took one look at it and practically passed out with excitement. Seems the mutt had found himself a piece of old growth vine that Winston said was at least a hundred years old, probably closer to one hundred and fifty, which could make it from some of the oldest vines in Sonoma. Possibly old enough to have been started from cuttings of the original stock planted by Father José Altimira at the mission.
Next door was the only place close by that we knew had a history of winemaking going far enough back to have old growth. Winston swore he could still feel life in that piece of wood, and we set about trying to get a look at what might be on the property. We even sent up a drone to get a better look at the scrub and saw evidence of enough vines to get some bottles out of them. If we could get ahold of them, and if we could bring them back to life.
See, the thing about grapes is that they’re tough. The young vines soak up water like a sponge and all that sap runs through them so fast it doesn’t develop a lot of complexity in the juice. The old vines hunker down and conserve every drop of water they get. The older they get, the more they hold onto the resources that keep them alive. Their life blood lingers and makes their fruit richer and more complex. They don’t look like much. Gnarly, black hulks completely wrapped up in the tendrils that have run wild. Only new growth produces grapes, so the old vines just keep growing without giving you much if they’re not taken care of. Tend to them, cut them back the way they’re supposed to be cut, and those old vines might produce a wine that would be damn close to an elixir of the gods worthy of Dionysus himself.
An hour later, I’m the proud owner of another fifty acres and, potentially, something much rarer and more valuable. A week ago, that would have had me flying, but there’s something even more precious waiting for me back at my house. Even though I want to run back to Dillon, Winston insists on heading over to the new property at once. I text Dillon I’m going to be a couple more hours and we go saddle up Spaghetti and her stablemate, Chardoneigh. The quickest way to the new land is the trail that goes along the river and the horses can go through terrain a truck can’t.
Winston’s a live wire of excitement, and I can’t help but catch some of his enthusiasm, but my mind’s not fully on this adventure. I want to see Dillon. I swear I can still taste him on my tongue even though we sealed the deal on the sale with a glass of my Tempranillo. But I put on my boss face and follow Winston out of the stable yard.
* * * * *
It’s almost dinner time before I get back to my house. In spite of the very good news that yes, our gamble paid off and I am the proud owner of around a hundred vines that date back to at least the 1870s, possibly further, I’m beside myself with worry that Dillon’s taken off. He hasn’t answered any of my texts. I can barely take care of Spaghetti and Char before I’m sprinting towards my house, anxiety growing with each step.
I burst through the front door. The house is eerily silent and looks exactly like I left it this morning. No dishes in the sink, no books left on the coffee table, no evidence that Dillon has been here all day by himself. Shit. I took the shortcut from the barn and didn’t go past the tasting room, so I don’t even know if his car’s still in that last slot.
My heart’s pounding as I make my way down the hall to the bedrooms. He’s not in the guest room where he slept last night, but I find him sprawled on the bed in my room.
With a cry that sounds more like a wounded animal than human, I go to him, not even taking off my boots before I’m dragging him into my arms and kissing him until he opens his eyes. His mouth tastes of wine, and he still smells of us. It’s intoxicating. The headiest substance I’ve ever experienced. I can’t help myself; I’m stripping him and trying to pull my own clothes off at the same time.
“I love you,” I whisper, and he’s saying it back as his hands pull my shirt from my body then fumble with my belt.
“You smell so good,” he says as I pause to kick off my boots. He’s got my shirt pressed to his face. “Horse and leather and dirt. I thought you had a meeting.”
“I did. I texted you that I was checking out some vines after.”
Tossing my shirt aside, he frowns and rubs his eyes. “I haven’t looked at my phone all day. It’s a shit show.” His arm drops to the bed, then he reaches up for me. “I didn’t want to think about anything but you. Come back here.”
I shuck off all my clothes until I’m standing there naked and hard in front of Dillon, and he pulls in a shuddering breath that makes my cock twitch. He laughs, rolls up onto his knees and walks across the bed to me. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, running his hands down my torso. “You were always the pretty boy, so beautiful and perfect.”
“You were the perfect one,” I say and loop my arms around his neck. “That hair, those eyes. All the girls wanted you.”
“Well, they can’t have me. I’m taken.”
Dillon closes the distance between us, and it doesn’t matter which one of us other people thought was more attractive. All that matters is that we are both here, and we want each other. We kiss, and Dillon reaches between us to take hold of my cock, running his fingers through the fluid that’s dripping from my slit and using it to ease the slide of his hand down my shaft.
“That feels amazing.” I sigh and let my head drop back letting him explore and tease to his heart’s content.
I’m suddenly engulfed in the warmth of Dillon’s mouth and have to reach down and grab myself to keep from coming, it feels so incredible. I stare at him as those perfect lips glide over my head. His tongue teases at the ridge of my glans, then traces the veins on my cock. He’s trying to take me deeper, but I can tell he’s never done this before when he tries to take too much too fast and has to pull off, coughing. I tangle my fingers in his hair, pull him back with a gentle tug so he has to make room for me on the edge of the bed, then lie down next to him.
“Get your clothes off,” I say, my voice rough, like I’m the one who’s just had him down my throat, and Dillon hurries to do what I say.
He tosses his jeans and t-shirt to the floor. He’s still commando, just like he was earlier, and that’s so fucking hot. I stare at the muscles on his chest, his abs, the deep and oh-so-sexy V leading my gaze right to the sight of his very hard, very excited dick. When he’s naked, I tell him to lie back so I can take him in.
I can’t believe he’s here, in my bed, and when he stretches himself out like he’s the main course on a buffet, I growl and run my fingers down the center of his chest. I trace the lines of all his muscles, tease at the fine hair that leads from his belly button to his cock. His hair’s short but not rough against my fingers. I’ve seen the concert photos, the ones with his jeans all but falling off his slim hips, so I know he keeps himself trimmed, but I didn’t expect it to feel like velvet.
Before, when we were at the old homestead house, I didn’t have a chance to really look at him, experience him, but now I do. I take my time exploring his body with my fingers, my tongue. I find the places where he’s ticklish and the ones that make him buck his hips up and plead with me to take him in my mouth, but I tell him no. We’re not rushing this. Not this time. I want both of us shaking with need before we’re done.
As much as I’m getting to know Dillon’s body, he’s doing the same to me. Every place he touches is like a brand marking me as his. As if he needs to mark me. As if I haven’t been his since the day we met.
“There’s been no one like you,” I whisper to him as I kiss my way up his jaw. “Never.”
