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“Wait, where are we going?” I asked. “Is this the part of the movie where you reveal that you’ve been a ghost all along, and need me to know where you’re buried?”
Hunter snorted. “Nothing that exciting. Just…” His thumb stroked over my hand, and it became hard to concentrate on his words. “…thought you should get a moonlit tour of the distillery.”
“Oh,” I said. Then I rallied back some of my eloquence. “Is the moonlight particularly important?”
“Incredibly important,” he said seriously, but his eyes were dancing.
He led me down the gravel road, through the woods with the singing cicadas and the air that smelled like damp earth, sweet green growing things, and burnt caramel. The shadows made him look dark and mysterious, made me feel dark and mysterious too, a human maiden being led astray into the wilds by her feral fae prince, to dance and dance at the midsummer masque of the Faerie Queen.
Or not.
The distillery was lit by half lights as Hunter pulled me into the first room, jars and jars of grains lining the wall.
“The mash bill,” he explained in a whisper. “Mostly corn, except in the special brands. I’d tell you the exact recipes, but then…” he shrugged.
“You’d have to kill me?” I teased back, also whispering.
He grinned wickedly. “Clever girl.”
Our feet stole quietly across the floor, past the miniature grain mills to a set of spiral stairs. Cool air drifted up from the bottom, and as we descended, I could hear the burble of a spring.
“Only the purest water,” Hunter said softly. “Completely natural, straight from the earth. Filtered by limestone, not corrupted or polluted or deionized.”
He dipped his hand into the spring and held it to my lips; my eyes closed as I let the cool water slide down my throat.
I had never tasted anything so delicious.
I wanted so, so badly to lick his hand.
I pulled away, glad of the half-light that hid my blush. “What else are you hiding here?”
“Oh, all sorts of secrets.” That roguish grin again.
And then he took me to the cave rooms where yeast strains had been preserved since the Prohibition era, and there were mash cookers, and fermentation vats with thick cypress slats hewn from local forests, and cylindrical copper stills gleaming like buried treasure, and finally, thick white oak barrels where the bourbon whiskey could age, soaking up the flavor until they were ready to be bottled.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and to my surprise, I really meant it. I wasn’t the type to get soppy over something like this. But it truly was amazing. The alchemy of it. The magic.
“It’s full of history,” he said, his gaze full of soft wonder as he surveyed his distillery as if seeing it through new eyes. “I never appreciated it when I was younger, but I look at it now and I…”
He trailed off.
My hand had been without his for far too long; I took it again.
“Tell me about it,” I asked softly.
“You probably know more about it than I do,” he said. “All that time you spend in the library. You probably appreciate it more than me by now.”
I shook my head. “I can tell it means a lot to you.”
He nodded. “The world is so full of uncertainties,” he said. “But this, the recipe, the brewing…it’s an art, and it’s a science, and it’s the history of my family, and…it’s the one thing I can put together, and know it’s strong, and it’s right, and it’s meant to last.” He shrugged, seeming embarrassed. “I can’t explain it, not really. Not in words.”
“Then show me,” I said.
His eyes met mine, and electricity sparked across our gaze.
He walked to the bottling line without breaking my gaze, and took an empty, popping open a cask to let the cool liquid spill into it before bringing it to my lips.
The fiery liquor burned as I swallowed, caramel and vanilla and hot fire unmatched by anything but the heat in his eyes. Hunter Knox. So successful, so closed off…and yet in this moment, so deep, so vulnerable, so trusting.
So hot…
A drop escaped the corner of my lips, and he wiped it away, his fingers lingering at the corner of my mouth, our eyes still locked. I couldn’t breathe. My heart was in my throat, beating in time with his.
He set the bottle down and traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, moving closer.
And then I leaned up and kissed him before he could change his mind.
His lips were hot, scorching, and he tasted wild and free and like everything I had ever wanted, better than cool underground streams or high-end liquors or the nectar of the gods. He grabbed my arms and pulled me close, my soft body melting against his hard chest, my hands greedy as they gripped his back, sliding down to cup that perfect as**s. His hands slid up my arms to tangle possessively in my hair, grip tightly at the back of my neck, and I moaned into him, parting my lips to let his tongue plunder my mouth. I ground against him, wanting him, needing him—
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