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“It’s too early to drink.”
“It’s almost one. You’ve been at it for hours.”
His own glass was half-empty. The thought of him drinking alone was strangely sad, even though it shouldn’t have been. There were lots of things, she thought, that Rafe should have been doing alone, but wasn’t.
She picked up the glass and took a long sip, recognizing it as an oak-aged Chardonnay she’d bought a few weeks back because the taste was like butter going down.
“You’ve been going through my things again,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “I really wish you wouldn’t. Ask me if there’s something you can’t find.”
“Fair enough.” He edged around the corner of her desk in a way that made her feel trapped, even when he halted two feet away. “Did you find anything useful?”
“No.” She shot an impatient look at the papers. “Marco had a coffee date with someone a few days before his death and apparently he was meeting with a realtor, but he’s been meeting with so many people over the last couple months—lawyers, insurance folks—that I’m not even surprised.”
“Any order forms for poison?”
She laughed bitterly. “I really don’t think he’s that stupid, Rafe.”
“He lost you, didn’t he?” Rafe stepped over her legs, perching on the edge of the desk in a way that put her eye-level with his chest. Before she could respond, or even react, he said, “And the scheme with the Vespaiola grapes was fucking moronic.”
It was easy for him to talk. He wasn’t part of this, the boy with the silver spoon in his mouth who had gone off to become a success story in his own right. Whatever happened to her, he could cheerfully avoid entirely just by going back to Portland.
“Why are you still here?” she asked abruptly, unnerved by his presence and the effect it had on her. She set down the wine and pushed it away. “You got what you wanted. You could leave.”
“So could you,” he responded.
Donni scoffed.
“I mean it. Why stay—unless you enjoy punishing yourself?” He thumbed the straps of her tank top, working them down her shoulders. “I bet you didn’t even call the lawyer yet.”
“So?”
“So do you enjoy punishing yourself?” he asked hotly. “Or do you just wait around for others to do it for you?”
“I didn’t realize you were moonlighting as a therapist now.”
“You know me. I love a good head-fucking.”
“Beast.”
His mouth covered hers, rough and achingly sweet. Donni let out a harsh breath as he kissed down her jaw, her throat, whatever he uncovered as he rolled down her top. When he nipped delicately at her collarbone, her fingers spasmed around the chair’s wooden armrests.
“Beg me,” he whispered. “Tell me you’ll fucking die if I don’t touch you.”
At her silence, he got to his knees and kissed her breasts through her bra, biting through the thin lace, and it was as if his touch were cinching her ribs together with dark thread, pulling them tighter and tighter, until all she could think about was coming unwound.
Slowly, feeling drunk, she reached behind herself to unfasten the clasp of her bra. He watched her slid the straps down and pull it out through the armholes of her tank top with an amused smile, allowing her the pretense of modesty before yanking the neck of her shirt down and pinning it beneath the weight of her breasts. She moaned when he dipped his fingers into her wineglass and circled each of her nipples in the chilled wine, watching them stiffen to tight peaks.
Then he covered each one with his mouth as he unzipped her jeans. “Lift your hips,” he whispered, and his breath stung like a brand on her damp skin.
“Rafe,” she choked out. “Please.”
“You’re tense,” he said. “We both know why, so you can stop pretending. Just lie back and let me take care of you. Drink your wine, if you want. You don’t even have to look at me.”
He slid down her jeans and underwear, pressing his lips to her neck again as he tugged her clothes down to her ankles, leaving her bare-assed against Marco’s antique wooden chair. He trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses across her hip, until his chin was resting on her thigh. She heard herself make a sound, a slight one, as he reached for his own pants.
“I can’t—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”
