Page 7 of Bourbon Wishes (Wine Country Alphas #3)

Bastian

C onstance is a mess of sprawled limbs and sweet satisfaction in the passenger seat beside me, cheeks flushed, creamy thighs still quivering, her scent wreaking havoc on my patience. We're five minutes from my house, and every goddamn second is a personal affront.

I'm definitely breaking the speed limit before she breaks me with her soft whimpers. Every single one has me in a chokehold.

Christ, I never knew it could be like this. I never imagined it would be like this. I've been waiting for her for an entire lifetime, but I still didn't think…

I'm not sure why I'm surprised by how desperate she's made me. She's been unraveling my restraint and my sanity piece by piece for the last three months. That tiny fuck-me dress was the tipping point. Feeling her gush around my fingers and moan my name was the final descent.

But as much as I want to fuck her like a ravaging beast until neither of us can walk, I won't do that. At least, not the first time. I will be a gentleman and take care of her first.

I pull the truck into the garage and kill the engine. "Wait for me," I order before climbing out. If she hears me, she doesn't respond. But she doesn't move either. She's still sprawled and basking when I pop open her door and lean in to remove her seatbelt.

She stirs as I lift her into my arms.

"I can walk." The protest is feeble, especially when she wraps her arms around my neck, burying her face in my throat. I feel the tip of her tongue against my overheated skin, and my grip tightens on her round ass.

"Behave," I growl, stomping toward the house.

Her soft laugh hits me right in the heart. Constance Maverick wouldn't know how to behave if her life depended on it. There's something poetic about that. I would fall for the one woman on the planet who breaks every goddamn rule she meets.

It's not like I'm complaining, though. Her spirit is one of the sexiest things about her. I don't want to change her. I want to worship at her feet.

She glances up as we step into my kitchen.

Her eyes scan across the space, taking in the gleaming hardwood floor, chrome fixtures, and massive bay windows, and I can't help but wonder if she likes what she sees.

When my dad and uncles helped me build this place, I never really understood who I was building it for or why.

I just knew every detail had to be perfect.

"Wow," she whispers after a moment. "This is beautiful, Bastian." She peeks over at me, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "And here I was, expecting a throne in hell or a lair."

I swat her ass before depositing her on top of the granite island. "Keep fucking with me, baby," I warn her. "You'll see just how hellish I can be."

"Oh, I'm well aware," she says dryly. "I put a dollar in a jar every time I think about stabbing you with my pen." Her smirk grows. "I'll be taking a fancy vacation very soon."

I step up between her parted legs, pressing my lips to her ear. "I haven't been inside you, making you beg to come, Constance. When I am, you'll know exactly what kind of bastard I can be for you."

She grips my arm, whimpering softly.

I nip her throat before stepping back. "Behave and let me feed you."

"I had that dream before." Mischief dances through her dilated eyes as they meet mine. "For the record, we weren't in your kitchen."

"You've been dreaming about me?"

"Maybe." She shrugs, flashing another taunting grin up at me. "I'll never tell."

"You will. I want to hear everything." I grip her thigh, my eyes boring into hers. "What have you been dreaming?"

"All kinds of things," she says, being as unspecific as possible just because she can't resist. She fucks with me like it's her job.

Hell, maybe it is. God only knows what my cousins added to her job description to make my life more complicated.

"There was this particularly memorable dream you'll love. "

"Tell me," I growl, my fingers digging into her inner thigh, not hard enough to bruise, but just hard enough to make sure she knows I'm right there, hanging onto every word from her sinful lips.

Her tongue skates across the bottom one before she leans in, looping her arms around my shoulders. Her warm breath pelts the side of my neck and then the shell of my ear. "You were tied to a rock with wine poured all over you," she whispers in my ear. "The buzzards loved it, Bastian."

I grunt, wrapping my free hand around her throat to bite her lip. "You're a fucking brat, aren't you?"

"No." She smiles at me. "But I work for Satan. Maybe he pisses me off sometimes, and revenge dreams are better than actual murder."

"You don't want to kill me."

She snorts loudly. "Please. I plot to murder, maim, or otherwise ruin your life at least three times an hour."

"You ruin me every time you smile."

Her lips part slightly, her eyes locked on mine, as if she's unsure if I'm being honest or not. I don't like that. I don't like that she doesn't know just how wild she makes me. It's my own damn fault that she doesn't know, but I still don't like it. It needs to be fixed. Immediately.

"I dream about you," I murmur, holding her gaze as my hand creeps higher up her thigh, my fingers barely ghosting across her smooth skin.

"Every night, I'm inside you, ruining you for any other man.

You sound so sweet in my dreams when you're moaning my name.

" I bury my face in her throat, nipping and sucking at her pale skin.

"But they don't even do justice to the way you moaned it tonight. I want to hear it again."

"Bastian," she whispers, half moan, half plea.

My hand slips beneath her dress, my pinky skimming the seam of her soaked panties. "I want to hear you scream it until your voice breaks." I rake my teeth down the tendon in the side of her neck. "Christ, I want you so desperate, every little touch has you sobbing for me."

"Yes," she moans, her hands flexing on my shoulders as she inches her legs farther apart in invitation.

I need to feed her before I fuck her…but I'm just bastard enough to take that invitation anyway. I slip her panties aside, desperate to feel her juices coating my fingers again. I need her coming on me again. Now.

Her head falls back, a loud moan rolling from her lips as soon as I touch her swollen clit. But this time, touching her isn't enough. I need to see her. I need to taste her. I need her as raw and wild for me as I've been for her since she waltzed into my office the very first time.

I plant a hand against her shoulder, gently pressing her backward. She sprawls across the island like a wanton sacrifice, legs spread, dress around her hips, chest heaving. Fucking gorgeous.

"Fuck," I growl, my eyes locked on the drenched scrap of pink lace between her thick thighs. I hook my fingers into the sides, dragging it down her legs.

She plants one foot against the side of the island, giving herself a little leverage to lift her ass so I can pull it all the way down. The scrap dangles from the heel of her shoe like a Pop art homage to eroticism, all bright, unkempt, tantalizing perfection.

I wrap my fingers around one ankle, spreading her wide. Her cheeks flush as if she's embarrassed or shy, but she doesn't try to stop me. She just stares at me, her blue eyes brilliant and huge. So fucking sexy.

"I want to taste you."

I'll hear her whimper echoing in my dreams long after her taste fades. It's pure surrender, pure need. She's not disobedient and giving me hell now. No, she's long past that, too goddamn horny to fight.

I hook my foot around a stool, dragging it close. She shivers as it scrapes across the floor…and then shivers again when I lower myself onto it, my eyes still locked with hers.

"Since you didn't let me have my dinner, I'm going to feast on you," I murmur, hauling her to the edge of the island. Her round ass dangles over the edge, her pussy bare and spread wide for me. "And you're going to behave and let me."

"Bastian," she moans.

I dip my head, blowing across her sex.

Her nails dig into the back of my hand. She isn't trying to stop me, though.

I think she's trying to root herself to reality before I rip it away.

But I don't feel like playing nice or taking it easy on her, not right now.

Not after three months of torture. Not after she showed up in that dress tonight, waving those curves like a red flag in front of a raging bull.

She didn't need the damn Spanx she poured herself into. The dress molds to every damn curve without them, setting my blood on fire.

I run my lips up the side of her thigh, willing myself not to come in my pants when I smell her. She's sweet, musky heaven, all tart berry and woman. And all of it is for me.

I sink my teeth into her inner thigh, earning another one of those whimpers I'll hear on my deathbed. Christ, what a way to go, with the sounds of her pleasure playing in my ears. With memories of her spread out like this playing through my mind. A motherfucker could die happy like that.

The first taste is a life sentence. The second is a slow death. She's already gushing on my tongue, crying out my name. And I'm already addicted, already willing to kill for more of this. Goddamn, she's so sweet. So perfect.

My hands dig into her hips as I lift her higher, burying my face in her pretty little pussy.

She chokes on my name as I flick my tongue against her clit, lapping up her juices like a starving man.

That's what I am. It's what she's turned me into.

Every goddamn day for the last three months, she's pushed me further around the bend, turned me into a slavering, ravaging beast.