Brave Enough by M. Leighton

when Dad gets something in his head, it’s nearly impossible to change his mind or alter his course. He’s like a dog with a bone.
    His first suggestion was that he take Michael on a tour of the buildings on the grounds. I was more than happy to let them have at it, but my father
insisted
that I go, too, citing my childhood love of Chiara and Michael appreciating my “enthusiasm.” Politeness is too deeply ingrained in me to do anything more than simply smile and graciously agree, so that’s what I did. No reason to make this any more uncomfortable and disagreeable than it already is. Or is likely going to get, once my father finds out about Tag.
    We returned to find lunch set up on the east veranda. I wondered what Tag was up to, because I haven’t seen a glimpse of him since he came through with Cher right after Dad arrived. I didn’t have time to look for him, though, because my father called for the Jeep right after we ate. I thought maybe I’d see Tag when he brought it around, but it was just sitting at the top of the driveway, empty, with the keys in the ignition.
    I sat in the back for the Jeep tour of the vineyard, enjoying the breeze coming through the open rear windows. It was when we passed the merlot field that the ache began.
    As though I was experiencing it all over again, I could close my eyes and remember with perfect clarity every kiss, every touch, every word that transpired between Tag and me last night. He was right—I’ll never look at those grapes the same way again.
    Thankfully, the tour is over. I quickly excused myself to shower before dinner and took a moment to search the house for Tag. Again, he was nowhere to be found. Not even Stella, resting in her rooms at the caretaker’s cabin, knew where he might be.
    I stare at the bed as I strip off my clothes. My skin is sensitive. Tender, almost. And the ache that I’ve carried since the fields deepens to a need that throbs and pulses all the way through me. I moan softly at the pleasure/pain of thinking about Tag, of his hands and his mouth on me.
    What the hell is wrong with me?
    I don’t bother with gathering clothes. I just head for the bathroom, hoping that a cool shower might ease my discomfort.
    I turn on the spray and step in immediately, gasping at the shock of the cold water on my heated skin. I had an allergic reaction to antibiotics once when I was a little girl and this is what my skin felt like—as though even the air was too much stimulation. Only this,
this
is centered around my core. Every drop of water, every run of liquid down my body causes a reactive squeeze between my legs, a plea for release.
    I grab the soap and roll it in my hands, determined to ease the discomfort any way that I can. I can’t go through the evening this way. I’ll just have to take care of things myself and hope that fixes me.
    I barely hear the soft click of the shower door open and close. Itisn’t until I feel Tag’s hands at my heavy breasts that I cry out. I’m surprised, yes, but the feel of him touching me, when I need it so, so badly, is enough to reduce me to a writhing mess in his arms.
    He is pressed snugly to my back, his face tucked into the curve of my neck and his arms wrapped around me from behind. He rubs and tweaks and teases my nipples until I’m grinding my butt into the unforgiving granite of his erection.
    â€œYou missed me today, didn’t you?” he whispers, nipping at my earlobe with his teeth. Even that seemingly innocuous action sends a bolt of electricity shooting to my sex. “Did you think about me when you rode through the fields? Did you ache from having me inside you so much last night?”
    I nod, my mouth hanging open as I take in gulps of air and try not to bring the house down with all the sounds that are bubbling up in my chest.
    One of Tag’s hands slides down my wet stomach, pushing between my folds to slip a finger into me.