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“Tommy!” I scream out, my ass in the air as he carries me toward his bathroom. I swat his bare butt a few times and in return he bites the side of my ass.
“Stop squirming or I’m going to drop you. Don’t you want to take a shower in my, how did you put it again, awesome shower?”
“Yes!” I shout, knowing we’ll be doing anything but actually getting clean.
It takes us a bit but we’re finally inside the shed where we set up to process the honey we collected from our bees. The bees are still producing and we’ll need to do another round of harvesting and extracting, which is great because if this whole mead thing works, we’ll need a lot more honey.
Tommy had moved what we collected into the back of the storage shed, placing it on a few shelves. We have a five-gallon container full after transferring the jars and since this is our first time ever doing this, we can only hope we got it right.
“You ready?” Tommy asks, his nose wrinkling up as we both obviously begin to question what the hell we are doing. It’s a risk, something we could potentially fuck up, but if we succeed it could mean a new adventure for both of us.
Lauren, Jack and Ellen are always open to adding new products to the Somerville name and expanding their business. We would never look at taking this venture anywhere else given we’ve used their land, technically their bees and all their equipment. It may be us putting in the hard work, but it’s their business that has allowed us to do it.
Tommy now heaves the five gallon bucket off the shelf and onto the floor, peeling back the lid to reveal the smooth amber liquid.
I think the collective sigh of relief that falls from our lips can be heard all around the vineyards and both of us look at each other, chuckling a little as my heart rate begins to slow back down.
I had no idea opening a barrel of honey would cause such a spike in my anxiety and my heart to race wildly in my chest, thumping hard and fast with wonder.
“It looks the same as the day we put it in here,” Tommy announces with relief, his chest puffing out and falling quickly, his shoulders sagging as if they were holding up too much.
“I think that’s what we hoped for, right?” I ask, realizing neither of us has a clue what we’re doing other than now becoming experts in watching YouTube videos on how to keep bees, how to harvest honey and now how to make mead. We’re those Internet idiots who think watching videos makes us capable of this.
“What the hell are we even doing?” I ask now laughing. “What if the honey tastes like shit?”
“It probably does,” Tommy states, laughing right along with me. “I guess we should taste it before we get too far into this, huh?”
I grab a sanitized scoop from where we have our materials all ready to go and I dip it into the vat of honey, spooning it into a bowl.
I run my finger through it, swirling it around so I get a decent amount of the sticky liquid on my finger.
“You first,” I say, holding out my honey-covered finger to him.
“Now you know how much I love licking things off your body, but I’ll be a gentleman today and let you go first.”
We’re eyeing each other suspiciously, my finger dangling in front of us with the honey starting to drip.
“I insist you go first,” I prompt, moving closer to him with my finger extended toward his clamped shut mouth. He looks like a toddler who is being forced to eat mushy peas. “I’ll even do a little airplane noise as I put my finger in your mouth. Come on now, open up.”
Before I can react, he’s dipped his fingers into the small bowl of honey and has me pinned against the workbench behind us. The weight of his muscled body has me trapped and laughing. All he has to do is press the lower half of his body against mine and I’m stuck. He’s too strong.
Damn all those years of manual labor at this vineyard!
“Open up, Pen,” he says, laughing so hard tears are streaming from his eyes and I’m pretty sure I look the same as I struggle against him.
“Don’t make me,” I threaten, my fingers in front of his lips.
“Make you what?” he asks, his words seductive, but still somehow temptingly hilarious. He knows what I’m about to do; the question is, which one of us will do it first.
I run my honey-covered finger gently over his lips and his tongue darts out instinctively to lick off the stickiness, and in that moment, something in him changes. His pupils widen and he takes my finger into his mouth sucking softly at first and then harder.
Everything that is felt in my finger sends a jolt through my entire body, and I push myself against him, feeling exactly what this is all doing to him too.
He cleans my finger off, his tongue caressing it in small circles and he lets it slide from his mouth and both my hands fall to his chest, gripping his t-shirt.
“Fuck, Penny,” he whispers, his lips next to my ear, his breath warm and seductive and I’m now wondering what the hell we’re doing in this shed, because it certainly isn’t making mead.
I wrap my hand around his wrist and lift his fingers to my mouth now, slipping them in and tasting what he just tasted too.
