Risky Tasting with Her Rival
I arrived at the Vale Estate under the dying light of a Napa Valley dusk, the crushed limestone drive crunching beneath my heels. Every step felt like a trespass, though the sleek black town car that had fetched me from the tarmac belonged to him. Five years ago, Darian Vale had been my mentor—a ruthless titan of the wine industry who had taught me everything about the delicate balance of power, patience, and pleasure. Before our partnership shattered over a single contested harvest, I had been his protégé. Now, I was his rival, summoned back to his empire by an ironclad acquisition contract I couldn’t afford to ignore.
“Vivienne.” His voice slid through the warm evening air, a dark, resonant timbre that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
He stepped from the shadowed portico of the main house, looking every inch the man who held half the valley in his grip. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, the jacket unbuttoned, the collar of his crisp white shirt open at the throat. His dark eyes locked onto mine with that same predatory, unreadable calm that used to infuriate and intoxicate me in equal measure. “You actually came.”
I met his gaze, forcing my chin up. “You didn’t leave me much choice, Darian. Your legal team made sure of that.”
He offered no apology, nor a smile. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod toward the sweeping rows of vines cascading down the hillside. “Walk with me. The 2018 Syrah is finally ready for a proper tasting.”
I fell into step beside him. The path wound between trellises heavy with dark, swelling fruit. The evening breeze carried the intoxicating, sweet-tart promise of crushed grapes and rich earth. Darian moved ahead of me, his broad shoulders cutting a swath through the gathering twilight. Watching the shift of muscle beneath his tailored suit, my mind betrayed me, flashing back to the dim depths of his old cellar. I remembered the exact weight of those hands pinning me against a French oak barrel, his voice a low rasp as he taught me the razor-thin line between holding out and absolute surrender.
We reached the private tasting room, a modern glass-and-stone sanctuary built directly into the hillside. Inside, amber ambient lighting gleamed off polished mahogany and rows of imported crystal. Darian bypassed the standard glasses, selecting two wide-bowled balloons. He poured the wine, the liquid a thick, inky violet in the dim light.
“Taste it,” he commanded, his tone dropping an octave.
I brought the glass to my lips. The wine hit my tongue—bold, complex, dripping with dark cherry and a smoky finish. As I swallowed, Darian stepped into my personal space. The scent of him—vetiver, expensive wool, and pure male heat—overpowered the wine. His chest nearly brushed my spine.
“You always did have the most ruthless palate,” he murmured. Slowly, agonizingly, his fingers traced the delicate crystal stem of my glass, sliding downward until they banded around my wrist. His thumb found the frantic, fluttering beat of my pulse.
He pressed deliberately over the vein, holding me captive in the quiet room. Outside the open sliding glass door, the crunch of heavy boots on gravel broke the silence. The night crew was moving through the adjacent rows, their low voices drifting through the warm air.
Darian didn’t release me. Instead, his free hand settled heavily at the curve of my waist, his large palm searing through the thin silk of my blouse. He leaned in, his breath hot and dangerous against my temple.
“The harvest crew is right outside,” he whispered, the words a velvet threat wrapped in dark promise. “If you make even the slightest sound, Vivienne… they’ll know exactly what you’re letting me do to you.”
His grip tightened on my wrist, a silent dare, waiting to see if I would bolt or lean into the fire. I stayed rooted to the spot, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm beneath his thumb. The sheer risk of discovery sharpened every nerve ending in my body, pulling a heavy, liquid heat low into my belly.
“This isn’t about the Syrah, is it?” I breathed, my voice barely a tremor.
“No,” he replied, his mouth hovering mere millimeters from the shell of my ear. “It’s about finishing exactly what we started.”
Consent ignited between us like struck flint. I turned into him, my palm flattening against the hard plane of his chest. “Then stop talking and take it.”
Darian’s eyes darkened with five years of unresolved hunger. He released my wrist only to seize the lapels of my blouse, peeling the silk away with deliberate patience until cool air kissed my bare shoulders and the garment pooled at our feet. His fingers traced the clasp of my skirt next, easing it down over my hips in a slow slide that left me standing in nothing but lace and heels. The tasting table’s edge pressed against the backs of my thighs as he lifted me onto its surface, the polished mahogany unforgiving and chilled against my flushed skin.
He stepped between my parted knees, his mouth descending to claim one nipple with a slow, possessive pull that sent sparks racing through my veins. One broad hand cupped the other breast, thumb circling until the peak tightened to an aching point. His free palm slid lower, parting my folds with two thick fingers that stroked through the gathering wetness without entering, spreading the slick heat in teasing circles that made my hips twitch against the unyielding wood.
The low murmur of voices outside the open door heightened every sensation. Darian dropped to his knees, his shoulders forcing my thighs wider, and dragged his tongue in one long, deliberate stroke from entrance to clit. The contrast of his scalding mouth against the table’s cold bite beneath me drew a strangled gasp from my throat. He repeated the motion, slower, savoring, then sealed his lips around the swollen bud and sucked with measured pressure while two fingers finally breached me, curling deep to stroke that hidden ridge inside.
Each thrust of his fingers matched the rhythm of his tongue, building a relentless friction that coiled tension low in my belly. I threaded my fingers through his hair, holding him closer as the wet sounds of his mouth filled the room, mingling with our ragged breathing. Five years of rivalry and absence sharpened every pull, every thrust; this was reclamation, his dominance reasserting itself over the territory he had once claimed and lost.
When he rose, his mouth glistened. He stripped off his jacket and shirt, baring the sculpted chest I remembered, then freed his thick length. The blunt head nudged my entrance, but he paused, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to mark as his dark gaze locked on mine.
“You were always mine,” he rasped, voice rough with possession. “Even when you walked away.”
The first deep thrust buried him to the hilt, stretching me around his girth with a heavy, grinding friction that forced the air from my lungs. He set a measured pace, each withdrawal deliberate before driving back in to claim every inch, the table creaking beneath us. My bare back slid against the cold mahogany while his body scorched mine, the slap of skin and the muffled voices outside weaving a taut web of danger around every movement. I arched into him, nails scoring his shoulders, surrendering to the relentless rhythm that spoke of anger, longing, and the need to reassert what had fractured between us.
His thrusts grew harder, deeper, one hand bracing my throat with possessive tenderness as the other pinned my hip. The pressure built until release crashed through me in shattering pulses, my inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic spasms that dragged a guttural groan from his chest. He followed moments later, pulsing deep inside with a final series of grinding thrusts, his forehead dropping to mine as we trembled through the aftershocks.
Darian eased free with care, disposing of the condom before retrieving a soft cloth from a nearby drawer. He cleaned me with unhurried gentleness, fingers lingering on my thigh as he checked for any trace of discomfort. The night crew’s footsteps had faded into the rows beyond the glass, leaving only the vineyard’s quiet hum. He pulled me into his lap on the leather chair, arms banding around me in a steady hold, one palm tracing slow circles along my spine.
“Stay the night,” he murmured against my hair. “We have five years to catch up on.”
I nodded, the cool bottle of water he pressed into my hands grounding me as his warmth surrounded us both. The contract could wait until morning.