A Taste of Merlot by Heather Heyford

encouraging him with her tongue, and powerless to resist her, he responded in spite of himself. Soon, their breathing became audible in the hushed silence of the enclosed space, the fogged windows adding to the illusion of privacy.
    He hauled her across his lap, cradling her head in the crook of his right elbow. The sight of her chest rising and falling had him ready to go again, and he reached beneath her shirt to caress the swell of her breast. She arched her back and closed her eyes, her shapely legs splayed awkwardly around the steering wheel, and that ridiculous excuse of a skirt once again riding up her thighs. Never had he seen anything more erotic.
    They couldn’t do this twice in one night, neither of those times in a bed. Could they? She took his hand and, sweet Mary mother of hotness, guided it between those long, tan legs and yes, apparently they could, and they were going to.
    She was a goddess whose dad was richer than Croesus. She lived in one of the most outrageous mansions in the country—he’d once stood in line to tour it!—but she wasn’t above making love in a parked car along a side street. She wanted him. Who was he to deny her? Show him the man who could. It’d have to be a better man than he.

Chapter 14
    â€œI have an idea. Let me drive.” Mark got out to switch sides before Meri could mount an argument. All the fight had drained from her, anyway. In fact, she was feeling supremely serene. While he circled the car, she scooted over to the passenger seat. He had satisfied her two—three?—more times. And he claims my hands are talented?
    She pulled a pack of tissues from her bag.
    â€œWhat don’t you have in that thing?” he asked, rapidly acquainting himself with the unfamiliar switches and graphics on the dash.
    She smiled. Her limbs were as heavy as if she’d had a good workout. In fact, she had. Though it was still early, she thought she could fall asleep at the touch of her head on a pillow. “Where are we going?”
    â€œSomeplace nice. Not that your studio isn’t,” he hastened to add, obviously leery of making her skittish again.
    He pushed the ignition button, bringing the car to life.
    â€œMy studio isn’t ‘nice,’ ” she admitted, dabbing at her nose. It was a relief to be able to laugh over Mark’s impression of her humble atelier. Earlier, she’d been so anxious he wouldn’t find it good enough, professional enough.
    She flipped down the sun visor to check the damage. “I’m a disaster,” she said into the mirror. Mascara was everywhere. “I really ought to clean up a bit.”
    Not that she really cared. She felt as mellow as the wine she’d been named for. She sank back into her seat as Mark maneuvered her car away from the curb.
    Since adolescence, sex had been a panacea to Meri. A way to forget. To feel wanted, to connect. Sex was something two—or more—people did to relieve chronic loneliness, or because of peer pressure, or just . . . well, did there have to be a reason?
    Yet when had sex ever felt like this ? A tiny sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh burst from her lips.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    She shook her head. Despite her distress over Mark’s urging her to use Papa’s name on her work, no amount of concealer could hide her fulfillment at connecting with Mark on a deep, personal level. But she should keep that hidden. If she told him how she was feeling inside, he’d bring the car to a screeching halt in the middle of the road, jump out, and run for his life. Guys didn’t want to talk about feelings after sex—and they surely didn’t want to hear about hers.
    For now, she’d sit back and hope he’d stick to his word not to mention her business decision concerning her label.
    â€œWhere are we going?” she asked idly.
    â€œYou said you wanted to clean up. I’m taking you home, to my