Page 14 of Talk Vino To Me
“Let’s give yourself a quick wash, eh?”
Ian gestures to a small stool to the left of the barrels. I strip off my shoes and socks, then step into the half barrel full of sun warmed water. I take the brush and give my feet a brisk scrub until I’m satisfied they’re clean.
“Right. Now hop on in to the barrel of grapes.”
“Huh?”
“Trust me. You’ll enjoy this once you get into it.” At my raised eyebrow, his half smile turns devious. “Unless you’re chicken.”
I’m not falling for that childish game. Nope. Ian can bait me all he wants, but I am not giving in. It doesn’t matter what he says; I refuse to let him get to me. And yet…
Ian grips my hand tightly as I slide my left foot, then my right one into the barrel. Plump grapes pop and squish beneath my heels.
“Oh God.” A full body shudder hits me as I squeal at the sticky juice running across my skin. “Ew. No. I’m getting out. This is such a bad idea.”
“Give it a chance before you pass judgment,” Ian says. “This kind of crushing is called pigeage.”
“Are you seriously going to sell foot wine, Ian?”
“Not every batch, but a selection, yes.” My eyebrows reach for the sky at his words. He laughs. “It’s traditional. Pigeage helps control the ratio of tannins of the wine much better than when the grapes pass through a machine.”
The stark rays of the sun behind him turn the corona of his dark hair an almost burgundy red. It’s like the opposite of a halo. I hold back a laugh; I’m definitely not telling him that. Bad enough that devilish smile of his lingers around his mouth.
“I’m in, I guess. What do I do?” I ask. More grapes pop as I shift my weight, trying to keep my balance. The flow of juice beneath my feet is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It’s a strange, almost ticklish sensation.
Ian cues up some music. I laugh out loud when I recognize the old Brothers Johnson song, a disco tune literally called Stomp! He shrugs, as if to say he’s admits it’s on the nose, but he’s leaning into the cheese of it all.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Shift your feet around in the barrel and press down. You can go faster as you get comfortable.”
I do as he says. It still feels so bizarre. But as I watch the grapes turn from plump globes to softly mashed slurry, I find a rhythm and get into it. My ankles and calves turn red as I stomp, smash and twist. I dance all over the fruit. When I hit a particularly fat cluster, I hold on to Ian’s shoulders for balance.
I can’t help it. I’m laughing and stomping and dancing and having the time of my life when I slip. Instantly, Ian’s hands are there, gripping my thighs so tight it makes me gasp. My own grip on his shoulders tightens, and his chin rests on my stomach.
Heat blooms in my core as his hands press into my thighs, just beneath the lower curves of my ass. Those callouses I noticed earlier rasp across my hypersensitive skin as his hands glide slowly down the backs of my thighs. It’s almost hypnotic as he repeats the motion, over and over, sliding down to my knees and up again.
I can’t help the sharp intake of breath when Ian’s hands go to my waist, and he bodily lifts me out of the tub of grape slurry. He places me feet first into the tub of clear water.
“That’s probably good for a first try,” he grunts. His voice is tight, like he can barely speak. I don’t say a word.
Ian kneels beside me and reaches for the brush. At the first touch of the damp bristles on my skin, my mouth goes dry. Other parts of me, however, become very, very wet.
“You don’t have to — I can —”
“Shh,” he whispers. “I want to. If that’s all right?” He looks up at me, an eyebrow half raised, a soft curve on his lips.
His quirked brow slides back down at my nod. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. I can’t watch.
But oh, I can feel.
Each brushstroke heightens the tenderness of my skin. The prickliness of the bristles, then the slow sluice of the water, trickling down my legs, then the rasp of his hands following after. Brush, slide, stroke. Brush, slide, stroke. Ian repeats the motions with endless patience, hands reaching higher and higher up my legs, until he’s far above my trembling knees.
But he keeps working, with steady patience. My breasts and core ache as Ian’s hands continue their exploration of every inch of my skin. My legs fall apart, and a soft curse leaves his lips.
I shift restlessly in the chair. Wanton and wanting. Desperate for relief from the throbbing ache in my center, yet unwilling to break the spell.
When my left foot grazes the seam of his jeans, my eyes fly open. He grunts as I discover the very obvious evidence of his arousal. Our eyes lock, and it’s as if we forget to breathe for a moment.
Then we’re both moving at once, and our mouths come together in a blaze of lips and tongues and desperate, dangerous desire.