Page 79 of Merging Wright

“These are wine cellars. I want a taste of sweet nectar. Vintage 1977.” Jane’s birth year.

I drop to my knees, taking her jeans down with me.

“Mr. Wright,” she whispers harshly. She can’t spread her legs far with her jeans at her ankles, but I wedge my face between her thighs and lick. Jane’s hips buck forward, and her hands grip the back of my head.

I hum against her wetness. “Definitely 1977. A very good year.”

She chuckles while she moans, and I continue my sampling, drinking in her essence.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mutters above me, moving her hips to meet my tongue, her body ripe and on the verge of coming. I smile against her, laying my tongue flat to lap across her slit before returning the tip to her clit. Jane is heaven and when she finally orgasms, I’m drunk on her. She’s a refreshing summer rain, green grapes exploding on my tongue, and the gentle heat of warm chocolate. She’s my favorite blend.

I press a kiss to her inner thigh before standing, bringing her jeans to her waist as I do. My mouth seeks hers once again, and we kiss until voices interrupt us.

“Perfect timing,” I mutter against her lips.

“You’re a bad man, Mr. Wright.” She giggles, sweet and disarming.

“But I feel so good, don’t I, Mrs. Wright?” She feels good to me.

She chuckles harder, and I block her from the view of additional cellar visitors as she quickly pulls up her zipper and fastens the button on her jeans.

“There wasn’t time for you,” Jane says, her voice lowering as we exit the dark cavern with my arm around her.

“You’ll pay me back later. First, I brought a bottle of wine for us to drink. There’s a shelter with a fireplace where we can sit inside and warm up.”

“Sounds romantic,” Jane teases.

I’m about to protest. There isn’t anything romantic about me, but I’m shocked to find I want to offer Jane a little romance. I want her to see we are more than a marriage on paper and sex in bed.

She matters to me.

36

Playlist: “Faster” – Matt Nathanson

[Jane]

As we share wine inside the warming shelter, I talk about my brother Garrett.

“Our granddad always wanted to own land, raise something. He wanted space, and he craved fresh, country air.” I sip the crisp Fall wine Mach brought. “When Granddad died, he left Garrett money, which Garrett smartly invested. He’s an investor by nature, but he wanted to own something for himself. So, he meets Dolores, falls in love, and sets up a vineyard in Georgia.”

“Georgia?” Mach’s brows lift. “I thought he lived in California.”

I inwardly smile that Mach is finally paying attention to bits and pieces about my family.

“He still has a condo out there. Tucker and Mae have been to it.”

Mach shakes his head, and I’m certain both our thoughts shift to his business partner and best friend falling in love with my sister after a whirlwind Route 66 road trip from Chicago to Los Angeles.

“Dolores is from Blue Ridge, Georgia. She owns a diner there, and her grandmother has farmland, a lot of farmland, which includes orchards and fields run amuck. Garrett decided to start a winery on Magnolia’s land.” Magnolia is Dolores’s grandmother, who we all believe will live to be a hundred. “He’s doing this for himself. But he’s also making that space in memory of Granddad. And, of course, because of setting up a future for him and Dolores.”

Garrett giving up his high-profile lifestyle and excessive ways for the lovely mountain woman who stole his heart is one romantic tale.

“Are you close to your brother?” Mach asks before sipping his wine.

“We were as kids. He was all I’m-man-of-the-family, but we had Granddad. I was second in command, playing mother hen and worrying about everyone. Garrett jokes that he was raised by a gaggle of women.” Despite being younger than him, my sisters and I had the silent mission of making our brother a decent man regardless of the disappearance of our father and the presence of Granddad.

“We speak often enough. Email and text have brought us closer because we can send short messages or funny memes without long conversations neither of us has time for.” The irony in our communication is I find time to chat with my sisters, and his wife Dolores is good about building connections.