Page 62 of One Last Rainy Day
Partially collapsing on her, the exhale of her name sounds like sandpaper as she strokes my slick back, whispering sentiment I can’t return.
“I missed you.”
“But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart.”
—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“SO, THIS ISa thing,” Cecelia drawls, voice hoarse, fatigued. “You have access to businesses all over town?”
“If we help fatten their bottom line we do,” I whisper to her temple, running the pads of my fingers along her back. Her wine-soaked dress sits in a heap on the floor—as do my clothes—our collective focus on the expanse of leafy vines trailing up the slope of the mountain.
Cheek pressed against my chest, she straddles me on one of two built-in benches lining each wall of the cellar. Mere seconds after we came to from our first round, a drawn-out kiss led to a deep, slow ride on the bench. One we’re still coming down from.
“It’s so beautiful here,” she whispers dreamily, fully relaxed. I can’t say I’m not feeling the same sort of lull, my posture just as lax as I draw lazy circles on her skin.
“Wine’s good.” I glance at the barrel where an unopened bottle sits next to the breathing one I doused her with. “Want some more?”
“I’m not really a wine drinker, but I’ll have some, if you will.”
“I’m not really adrinker.” I shrug. “A few beers here and there.”
A beat of silence.
“Because of Delphine?”
It’s not a stupid question, and for the most part, she’s on point. “Some of it. Mostly because I need to keep my wits about me.”
“In case of bird business,” she concludes, tracing my ink. Another stroke of my fingers down her bare back elicits a full-body shiver. Satisfaction thrums through me at how responsive she is to my every touch. We’re both a mess, hair picked through, sweat-slicked and sticky. I can’t manage a fuck to give that we’re naked and could be easily exposed to anyone who might pull up. One day in the near future, we will be, and all hell will break loose. Sean continues to play ignorant that day is coming, while I know what repercussions that revelation will bring. It’s the thought of cutting her loose now to help mitigate that disaster that has me tensing.
“Am I right?” Lifting her head, she frowns when she sees my mood has shifted. She fails to smooth out my drawn brows with her fingers, and I swat her effort away.
“Such a moody man,” she says in jest. That truth stings because it’s all I’ve dealt with lately from those in my inner circle—Sean especially, who’s currently keeping his distance in a way he never has. Sensing my irritation, she shifts from my lap onto the vacant bench beside me. “Dom, I was joking.”
Up in arms, she reaches for what’s left of her dress as I snap off the condom before grabbing my boxers and pulling them on. “No, you weren’t.”
It’s the fucking truth. I can’t seem to handle my shit anymore—my temper becoming impossible to regulate—especially when my mind drifts to the repulsive horrors I’ve been continually feeding it. Not bothering to gauge her lack of response, I grab the half-empty bottle from the decorative barrel and walk it over to Cecelia as she covers herself as much as possible—now on the defensive.
Way to go, asshole.
I fucked up the mood, as I so often do. This is where shit gets tricky. There’s no quick parting after sex with Cecelia. It’s not how she’s built, and it’s not like I want to end our time together, but this is unfamiliar territory—fucking lightyears from my comfort zone. As I take a long swig from the bottle with that truth in mind, she gapes at me. “Uh...for someone who just declared you don’t drink much, you pretty much downed a quarter of the bottle.”
“We have another.” I thrust it toward her with brute force, and she takes it cautiously. Pulling on my jeans, I push into my boots before making my way to the passenger side of my Camaro. Slackening rain pelts my skin as I collect my stash from my small fireproof box. The interior of the cabin lights up, and I glance up to see the sun peeking from the clouds before scanning the soaked grounds of the abandoned winery.
Thinking on my toes about how to try to turn things around, I turn my key and tap a song on my playlist. Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” rings out, echoing across the mountaintop. Glancing back toward the cellar, I catch Cecelia smiling at me.
She’s already forgiven me.
One of her gorgeous legs is propped on the bench, herbare foot resting on the edge, our wine bottle unceremoniously clutched to her chest—she’s the picture of serenity.
So. Goddamn. Beautiful.
Returning her grin, I stalk back into the cellar, taking a seat at the end of the table to roll.
“This really is a dream, Dom.” She swigs from the bottle, and I glance over to see her inhaling deeply. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“I wanted to be alone,” I assert, knowing it dampens some of the romanticism for her. But it’s important she doesn’t get the wrong impression. Picking through loose bud, I hear another swish of wine as it eases to the bottom of the bottle.
