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“Do you want more wine?” Amanda asked hesitantly.
“Yes.” The events of the night and driving for hours had finally caught up with me, and exhaustion was rolling in. After putting off how to end things for a month and then for someone else to have done it for me, in a spectacularly public way, I realised just how much energy I’d put into thinking about how to talk to Richard and tiptoeing around his moods at work.
I was free, finally. My shoulders slumped. The exhilaration of the awards evening and refusing Richard’s hand in marriage and dumping him in front of the faculty had well and truly waned.
“Yes,” I said again, noticing Amanda frowning. “One more and I’ll be ready to sleep for two years.”
Mrs Turner stepped out from the kitchen. “I’ve talked your parents down. You can stay in the shearers’ quarters. I’m afraid Stacey has commandeered several bedrooms in here for more painting. There’s one room left in the quarters. Most guests for the party have swags or claimed floor space somewhere with a sleeping bag. I’ll go get another woollen blanket, just in case.”
“Thank you,” I said absently as Mrs Turner patted me on the shoulder before heading back into the kitchen.
Watching the red wine roil and roll in the glass was a welcome distraction. The viscosity of the vintage was superb. It was one of the best varieties we made. Wine had been in my family for three generations here at Ballydoon, and generations back in Sicily, until war, recession and poverty forced my great-grandfather’s hand to buy tickets on a ship to come to Australia.
But would wine be in my future?
Here I was, freshly broken up with my fiancé, but all I could think about was the vineyard and if my father would finally let me step up as a leader in the business.
“Do you want to hang out in the house or stay at the patio?” Amanda corked the bottle.
My gaze turned towards the thump of distant music. “I want the dark and the cold and the stars.”
“Have you just regressed into some emo-high-school phase again?”
I chuckled, despite myself. “We did wear a lot of black in year ten, didn’t we? But no, I haven’t. After the bright lights and bling of an awards night gone wrong, I just want to sit in the dark around a fire and look at the stars with my wine.”
That’s when I realised Amanda was wearing no black at all. “You’re in many shades of teal.”
Amanda chuckled. “T Party theme.”
“Tea party?” Then I realised Mrs Turner had been wearing a long skirt made of various linen tea towels. “Like scones and cups of tea for Tom’s birthday?”
Amanda giggled. “We all had to dress as something beginning with the letter T. Teal seemed a low key option for myself. If you want to check out the party, at least there are plenty of distractions with costume choices.”
“You know, strangely, that does sound good. Let’s go secure some chairs around the bonfire.”
Arm in arm, I walked with Amanda down the patio steps and across the yard. A familiar guitar riff began, and several young men jumped up and cheered.
Amanda groaned. “Just what we need, Tom’s mates dancing without pants.”
A tradition that predated me, ‘Eagle Rock’ by Daddy Cool, made all the uni guys unbuckle their belts with a whoop, push down their pants and sing at the top of their lungs in a giant circle.
It guaranteed this response every time Daddy Cool’s iconic song blasted over speakers. The bar on campus banned the tradition three years ago. Male students staged protests, playing the song on the hour every hour outside the bar, dropping their pants before shuffling in a circle and singing the lyrics as loud as they could. Their efforts had made the national news, and after a week, they’d won.
In the firelight, I recognised Pete dragging someone to the circle—no mean feat considering he was shambling along with his jeans around his ankles—and demanded the new fellow strip off his pants and dance.
Tom.
He stood there for a moment, hands on hips, then shook his head and followed them.
My breath hitched as he bent over slightly, pushing his jeans down to his ankles, his woollen jumper not quite covering his boxer briefs. Tom was still all muscle, maybe more so. His legs were well defined from years of working in the paddocks and playing rugby.
Once, I’d ordered him to lie on his stomach, told him to hold on to the brass rails of his old bed, and he had, eagerly, gripping the rails so hard his knuckles had gone white.
I’d explored the back of his knees and thighs with my mouth and tongue, enjoying how his muscles quivered with my attention. I’d made him squirm and groan when I’d sunk my teeth into the sensitive skin just under his butt cheek.
He’d cursed and threatened me with all sorts of sexual retribution, which had only turned me on more. And when his threats and curses had turned to begging, pleading with me to touch him, I’d relented, at first teasing and light, and built up to firmer strokes between his legs.
Watching him tremble under my touch had been … powerful and sexy. I’d done that to him, and he’d loved it.
