Tempt Me, Taste Me, Touch Me

"I like the way your mind works," he said, then leaned down to whisper in her ear, "all through cocktails, all through dinner, you're going to have to make small talk, appear interested in meeting local vintners and their wives, knowing that later, I'll be making love to you in the vines."

SHE WANTED HIM. Now. Here. In the car. She wanted to tell him to pull over. She wanted to unzip his slacks, take his hard length in her mouth. She wanted to scramble into the backseat like a horny teenager, fumbling with clothes and zippers and seat belts.

How had she lived for thirty years without knowing how insatiable she was? Without knowing that the word "horny" was actually in her repertoire? It had been wonderful to discard her inhibitions in his cave, to strip for him, to watch his penis harden with lust. For her. That kind of feminine power was addictive. Tyson's touch was too. And she wanted his hands on her, needed them on her in the next sixty seconds or she'd lose it. "Find a dark road," she said. "Quickly:'

She'd already kicked off her heels and was shifting in her seat to reach her zipper.

He didn't so much as look at her, but after a quick right turn, he swerved into a black patch beneath an enormous oak tree and turned off the ignition. The headlights ricocheted off the trunk, illuminating it for a brief moment before he flipped them off. She was certain her desperation showed on her face, but she didn't care. The only thing she cared about was having him inside her.

Before he got a chance to do it himself, she'd unhooked his seat belt and was working on his zipper. And then his shaft was free and in her hands. She couldn't see anything in the darkness, but she felt how hard he was. How hot he was. Her hair brushed against his chest, against his penis as she bent over and took him into her mouth. He tasted sweet and salty at the same time. She laved his head with her tongue, gently, slowly, and when she couldn't take it anymore, she gave in to temptation, sucking him all the way down her throat as far as he would go.

"Carrie;' he groaned, and she knew that he was as desperate as she was. He bucked into her mouth, into her throat, and she drew him in deeper. She felt so powerful, so sexy. His wicked whispers in the hotel had made her grow wet, so wet, but now, with every thrust of his hips against her lips, she grew more aroused, more ready for him.

She wanted him to explode in her mouth, but Tyson had other ideas, because in an instant he had pushed the seat all the way back and pulled her on top of him. Her silk dress rode the tops of her thighs. His hands were rough, hurried, as he shoved aside her damp panties. The steering wheel pressed hard into her back, her rear, but she didn't care. He rolled on a condom in record time and she took him in, one inch at a time, and there was only the sound of their panting, the sound of her thighs rubbing, frantically, against the wool of his tux.

The pressure was more than she could bear and she was close, so close to exploding when he threaded his hands into her hair and pulled her mouth down to his. She took her breath from him as he lifted her up and down. He grew huger, thicker, and then she felt his orgasm begin seconds before her own spiraled out of control. They stayed like this for a minute, maybe two, catching breath, letting heart rates return to normal. She lifted a leg and slid back to the passenger seat, pulling her skirt back down, smoothing out the wrinkles she couldn't yet see but knew had to be there after their wild romp. In the front seat of his car, no less. Could her life be any more exciting? Any more reckless? She felt like a ball of abandonment, and it was wonderful. She heard him tuck in his shirt, zip up his pants.

"I hope 1 didn't make us too late:' she said as the first smidgen of propriety came back to her. His grin, satisfied yet still hungry, forced her anxieties away.

"Nothing like having a good reason to be behind schedule."

She smiled back, and as he returned to the road, she touched up her makeup and tamed her hair in the mirror above her seat. If ever there had been a good reason to be a few minutes late, making love to Tyson on a dark street was it.

ONE BY ONE, Tyson's initial impressions of Carrie were fading away. On first glance he'd thought she would be stuck-up, caught up in a web of impressions. He knew she'd been surprised by her hunger for him on Friday night. He'd wondered, even as his desire for her had grown so big he'd hardly been able to think straight, if his was the first c**k she'd ever licked, sucked, with such passion. He hoped so. Her astonishment had radiated off her in waves every time they'd made love. And even though she'd let go, given herself up to him and the pleasure they'd given and received each time they'd made love before now, she'd been holding something back.

Five minutes ago, ill the front seat of his car, she'd held nothing back. She'd wanted to take him in her mouth, into her sweet pu**y, so she'd done it. He'd simply been along for the ride. And what a ride it'd been. After the huge blow his ex had dealt him, and the mess of divorce proceedings, he'd instinctively built an impenetrable wall around his heart. Somehow, Carrie was breaking through. And he'd only known her twenty-four hours.

They pulled up to the Meadowood Resort in the hills of St.

Helena, just north of Napa. He opened her door, and when she stepped out, he marveled at her poise. No one would ever guess she'd been riding him in wild abandon, screaming his name, minutes before. He raked his gaze up and down her tall, perfect figure. Her dress was as immaculate as it had been on the hanger. Only it looked so much better covering her luscious curves. He took her hand and they walked inside, where cocktail hour was already in full swing. He was proud, honored really, to have Carrie on his arm. He'd bought the dress with the specific intention of showing her off, but as one set of eyes after another raked her up and down, he wondered if he would have been better off sending her a muumuu. He knew, via the grapevine, that a few of his colleagues pounced on anything with br**sts, but none had ever looked at his woman like this. Even his ex-wife, who would have dearly loved the attention, had never sparked so much male interest. Not to mention envy on the part of every woman in the room. Jo and Will Korbum approached. Will had started a Rhone wine consortium five years ago and had done a great job spreading the word about Syrahs, Viogniers, and Muscat Blancs. Will grasped Tyson's hand and pumped it hard.

"It's been too long, Tyson. Nice to see you back out among the living."

"Been busy at the winery:' he said, deliberately misinterpreting Will's words, the undertone that asked, Are you finally crawling out from that post-breakup rock you've been living under?

"Jo, Will, I'd like you to meet Carrie Anderson. She's a landscape designer based in San Francisco. Carrie, not only do they do great things for Rhone wines, but on many occasions I've found them to be a husbandand-wife comedy team."