Page 9 of Three Days to Be Ruined (The Winemakers #5)

Chapter nine

"The secret to a lasting blend, whether in wine or marriage, is knowing when to let each element breathe and when to hold it close." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

J ulia drifted to the marble bath, the chill of the stone tiles seeping through her thin robe, sending a shiver up her spine. She trailed her fingers through the steaming water, watching as lavender salts dissolved into pale, listless spirals. If only her worries were as easy to fade.

Perhaps a long soak would wash away the memory of the dinner—the way Griffin had needled Boyd over Miss Croft. Just look at her. Six years of marriage, and that same spark of jealousy still clung to her, as sharp as it had been in their first months together.

“This is heavenly. Hot water in the bathroom,” she raised her voice so her husband could hear, but if he did, he made no sign of joining her.

Griffin paced the bedroom, his tall frame casting shadows on the parquet. Now and then, he ran his hand over his dark hair and then at his shaved chin. His hands twitched like when he wanted to do something but couldn’t. “Boyd spent a fortune in this house to flaunt it to his guests. I bet the Highlander still bathes in the freezing river, like when he arrived in Portugal.”

“Perhaps he changed.” People could change, couldn’t they? The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she swallowed them quickly.

“Did you see how he treated Miss Croft? And the hunger in his gaze? The Scotsman has no shame. No shame at all.”

Julia gasped, her chest squeezing so hard it hurt to breathe. Was this how it ended? They had lived happily and desired each other for six years, but how many happy couples had succumbed for less?

Julia tightened the knot of her robe. “Why are we here, Griffin?”

“You know why. Boyd invited us—”

“Don’t lie to me. Please.” She had spent months preparing for Christmas back at home. All thrown to the wind because he decided to come here instead. “We are above that, don’t you think?” Tears clogged her throat.

“Love, is something the matter? Are the children all right?”

“They are in their rooms already. Asleep.” Blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing in her breast.

He came behind her, his heat making the hairs of her skin stand on end. She pulled in a sharp breath, hoping to store his scent in her lungs.

Julia turned in his arms. If she was doing this, she needed to see his eyes. “Why are we here?”

He glanced away. “You know I—”

Julia closed the faucet. “I’m going back to Vesuvio. You can spend Christmas here if you wish.”

“Leave? Are all Portuguese women mad? What bit into you?”

“I will tell you what—Boyd wants to marry Beth. And you are jealous.” Her chin trembled so much that she had difficulty intoning the words. But she said them, didn’t she? Now, it was out in the open, like a ruined vintage, tainting the floor.

He stilled. “What did you just say?”

She pushed past him and into the bedroom and started flinging her things into a bag. Flor could take the rest later. “Do you regret it? Having ended the engagement with Beth Croft? You can be honest. We are adults, and our bodies and minds are sometimes beyond our control.”

“That is the point. Boyd doesn’t want to marry Beth. He hates Croft even more than you do. As a gentleman, I cannot allow him to toy with Miss Croft. I feel responsible for her after I—”

“After what? You met me? Do you wish you hadn’t?”

“What? I didn’t know Portuguese women were so jealous.” He took the bag from her.

His voice, even his teasing tone, were so dear to her, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

“Please, don’t—”

He pulled her into the cradle of his chest. She brushed her wet cheeks against his shirt. His arms around her felt so precious, the first blush of summer, the first tiny flower of a vine.

He exhaled against her hair. “I love you more than I love my life. You are my soul wine. Forgive me if I don’t show you enough.”

Julia’s breath hitched, and she felt the pulse in her throat, a heartbeat so intense it almost hurt. His words lingered, perfuming the air like a precious vintage.

“You show me, it’s just—” Her voice wavered, the words catching like silk on a thorn. “My heart wilted when I saw you fighting with him over her.”

Griffin’s eyes softened, like embers calming to a glow, and she felt a tension in herself release, an invisible knot coming undone.

He stepped closer, his face leaning in, his mouth meeting hers in a kiss that was at once tender and fierce. She melted into it, tasting the faint hint of wine on his lips, breathing him in as if to press him into every corner of herself.

Cradling his face, she kissed him back with a longing that felt as vital as air. She held him tight because this was her Englishman, and he might be irascible and unreasonable, but he was thoroughly hers.

They never made it to the bed. The armchair was closer, sturdy, and inviting in the dim light. Julia’s fingers trembled as she helped him loosen his trousers, the heat between them building with each brush of skin, each small, urgent movement. When she lowered herself onto his erection, a shiver traveled up her spine, and her eyes fluttered shut, her head tilting back, offering herself completely. They groaned in unison, the sound of surrender, of home.

They lingered there, bodies entwined, savoring the closeness. They had the luxury of familiarity, of knowing just how to hold back, letting each sensation bloom and ripple.

Julia traced his jaw, his nose, his eyes, then lowered her hands to his chest, feeling the tautness in his muscles, the subtle tremor of restraint that only heightened her desire. She opened her eyes to find his face inches from hers, and their gazes locked, foreheads pressed together, the world narrowing to this moment, to him.

Time had not oxidized her responses to him. They had made love many times now, to celebrate successes and to soothe life’s little grievances, and each time was special in its own way, as if their lovemaking lived in a bottle and they could savor it at will, finding new nuances. Movement didn’t come for a long time. There was no need to rush. They let their love decanter, breathe, flaring its notes and aromas.

Her hand slipped up, tangling in his hair, and she tugged him closer, capturing his mouth in a kiss, her teeth grazing his lip. When she moved, rocking her hips against him, his hands tightened on her waist, grounding them both in the exquisite, slow-burning ache that only they knew.

Her eyes closed, her head falling back against his shoulder.

“You are mine,” he licked her cheek, his voice rough with need, his hands gripping her waist as if she might disappear. “I won’t allow you to think otherwise, Julia.”

“Make me yours,” she breathed. “I love you.”

She tightened around him, and he groaned, his hips jerking up in response. Leaning back into the chair, he cupped her breast in his hand, his mouth closing around her, tasting her, drawing a soft cry from her lips. His erection stirred inside her, his hips lifting to meet hers, a powerful rhythm that made her gasp.

“You are wrong about Boyd.” She took his earlobe between her teeth, hearing his sharp intake of breath as he filled her even more deeply.

He gasped, his grip tightening on her waist. “Englishmen are never wrong,” he growled.

“This one is.”

She traced his mouth with her tongue, tasting him, savoring his familiar flavor—warm, earthy, and spiced with desire. “I don’t think Boyd hates Beth. Perhaps there is hope for them. Boyd is lonely and a bachelor for too long.” Julia increased her tempo, grinding her hips faster. “And Miss Croft...she deserves some happiness.”

“Julia,” he exhaled, pleasure making his voice rough. “You sound as you do before blending wine and brandy to make port. As if you rule the laws of nature.”

Her laughter was breathless. “In matters of the heart, you are oblivious.” She slid her fingers over his shoulder and pressed herself closer to him.

“I’ll show just how much I know about such matters.” He lifted her in his arms and pushed her against the wall, his hips rolling in and out of her.

Julia laced her arms behind his neck, her mouth parting in bliss, and she forgot everything that was not her Englishman.

Pleasure burst from her core, spreading through her limbs. She bit his shoulder, muffling her cry, her whole body tightening as her climax rippled through her, anchoring her to him in a shared moment of exquisite release.

A while later, they were both in the marble bath, their legs entwined beneath the water, the warmth surrounding them like a comforting cocoon. Julia felt the rise and fall of Griffin’s chest against her spine, each steady beat of his heart a grounding rhythm that soothed her own.

His body tensed, his arms tightening around her. The shift was subtle, but she could sense his sudden unease, a ripple in the moment’s stillness.

“What is it?”

“I have a daughter now.” His voice was rougher than usual. “When I think of what I did to Beth, what I did to you then, and what some reckless buck might do to Clara, I want to punch my own face.”

A wave of tenderness swelled within her. He was a good man, this Englishman of hers. She reached her hand back, resting it over his, threading her fingers through his, letting him feel her reassurance.

“You never set up to hurt me or Beth,” she whispered, tilting her head to catch his gaze over her shoulder. “We should support her and Boyd in this. They seem clueless about this matter of love. Instead of interfering or making ridiculous plans, we should be their friends. That’s what we’ll do for our daughter when it’s time for her to marry.”

Griffin scoffed. “Clara will never marry. That’s been decided, Julia.”

She smiled, charmed by the gruff protectiveness in his voice, the way he could be so possessive and yet so endearing. Life with him was like the best vintages—layered and rich, revealing unexpected pockets of sweetness and hidden depths. She reached up, brushing a hand along his jaw, feeling the scratch of his stubble beneath her fingers. Leaning forward, she turned on the bath until their chests were level, her gaze meeting his.

“Your daughter Clara?” she murmured, a playful lightness in her voice. “That whirlwind with blue eyes and raven hair? I hope she chooses a Portuguese husband because an Englishman stands no chance against her.”