Whispers on the Mountain: The Hart Family of Moonshine Ridge

Chapter 5

Augustus freezes, pulling away to give me a confused look. The way his brows draw together and his jaw clenches, makes him look like I hurt his feelings.

Then another soft string of foreign words gets muttered and suddenly I”m standing on the floor again while Augustus fixes himself back into his clothes. Including putting his shirt and his belt back on.

”What happened?” I wonder aloud, half in general and half actually asking.

”Fiore mio.” Augustus shakes his head, his eyes on the ceiling. ”We”ve had fun today but it”s getting late. You should go home and plant your flowers.”

Five seconds ago, this man was touching me like he owned me and I was super into that, so what the hell just happened?

”Did I do something wrong?”

”No, fiore, you definitely did not do anything wrong.” Augustus hands me the basket of plants as he herds me out the front door. ”It”s obvious that there are years between us, but if I”d known you lacked experience, I”d have behaved myself better.”

My car is parked at the bottom of the hill, down by the lake shore. Augustus walks beside me the whole way, his hand resting lightly between my shoulder blades as if I”m his-- despite his obvious rejection that has me frustrated, confused, and increasingly pissed off.

”So, for the record,” I whirl to eye him after setting the basket in the back of my Jeep, ”is this a ”no?” or is this more like you want to wait till the third date sort of thing?”

This time he mouths the curses so quietly I don”t even catch the words. I”m really going to have to study some Italian curse words if he”s going to keep muttering like this.

”This is a no, fiore,” he finally tells me. ”I am not the man you want in your memories that way.”

Well, he”s wrong about that. He”s the man that was seared into my memory the moment I first saw him, and today has already guaranteed I won”t be forgetting him pretty much ever. The memory I don”t want of him is this one-- where he sends me home without satisfying the need that he only managed to make worse.

”What if I come back?”

Augustus inhales deeply, like he”s gathering his courage, but he doesn”t step away from me when I stand close to him,

”No means no, fiore.”

His lips curve in a smirk but his voice lacks conviction.

”Yeah, but you don”t sound like you”re not consenting so much as like you”re telling me I can”t have seconds on dessert.”

”Hand me your phone, Zephyr.”

See? That”s what conviction sounds like.

When he gets very serious, his voice goes stern and loses the trace of accent. I haven”t decided which way sounds sexier yet but I”m determined to hear more of both.

I unlock the screen and hand over my phone without hesitation. I don”t care if he”s going to put his number in it or if he”s going to go through it looking for naked selfies or so he can delete any texts I might have from other guys. It”s all good with me.

He has elegant fingers. Long and slender on hands that are at least twice the size of my own. Hands that were very recently wrapped around my thighs and my ass in ways that I”m kinda hoping left marks for me to admire later.

Those fingers tap against my screen for a minute and then he hands me back my phone.

”You let me know when you get home safely, fiore.”

August waits till I”m settled into the driver”s seat, watching to make sure I buckle my seat belt and then he nods at the insulated water bottle in the cup holder and reminds me to stay hydrated.

I don”t even get a kiss goodbye.

It”s like the whole kitchen scene never happened, but the whisker burn between my thighs says I absolutely did not hallucinate that-- that, and the fact that I”m driving home without my panties. Those are still in Augustus”s pocket.

Augustus Damiani is the only thing I”ve been able to think about for weeks now. It”s pretty obvious that he wants me too and I am determined to find a way into his bed.

* * *

Augustus

Fiore spendsher days torturing me.

I should never have put my number in her phone.

I remind myself that I needed to know she had made it home safely; the road between the village and Moonshine Ridge is steep and winding and wildlife can catch drivers by surprise even in broad daylight.

The part of me that no longer lies to myself scoffs at my half-truth. I was desperate to maintain contact with the gentle breeze that”s blown into my heart.

Since she called to tell me she arrived home safely-- called, mind you. I had expected a text. Hearing her sweet voice in my ear had only led to a night of misery as I soaked the sheets with my cum, painfully aware of the opportunity I”d turned down to have Zephyr in my bed and filled with my seed instead.

Now she sends me pictures daily. Of the flowers she transplanted in her garden and greenhouse; of the sunrise over the mountains from the back deck of her cottage in the family estate of Hart”s Gulch; of her naked tits swinging free and beautiful with the blur of color from her greenhouse flowers in the background; of her fingers working between her legs, those dusky blonde curls wet with her arousal as she shows me what I should never have asked to see.

I”m too fucking weak to block her number; too fucking addicted to her light to leave her on read. So, like a fool, I reply. Every time.

I don”t need my alarm anymore because I wake to Zephyr”s morning texts. Another sunrise, the deer in the meadow, the steam rising from her coffee mug.

Her cheerful good mornings have become conversations: how did you sleep? What will you do today? Did you dream about me-- I dreamed about you-- should I come visit?

We chat through the afternoons, her cheerful photos of her gardens and the bouquets she makes to sell in the little store down there brightening days that I hadn”t realized were so dull till now.

And my nights all end the same now, with me typing out a wish for sweet dreams for her in Italian because she says she sleeps best when I do, and then with me putting those dirty pictures she sends me to the shameful use she intends them for.

But I always evade her suggestions of coming back up to see me. I won”t take her innocence. That”s not a gift I deserve. It would haunt me forever if I became fiore”s greatest regret.

Which is why I don”t leave my desk on the day my front porch security camera alerts me to a visitor.

I watch her from my screen as she sits on the step far beyond the time she knows I”m usually home. I can”t bring myself to open the messages she sends me; no doubt wondering if I”ve been delayed at the plant and when I”ll get there.

If I answer her, if I see her, I won”t be able to stop myself from claiming her.

So I sit at my desk in my office, behind the safety of a manned security gate that keeps her from coming up to the plant, and watch the live feed from the camera on my porch like a coward.

It”s after dark when Zephyr has cried herself dry and gives up her vigil, leaving one of her bouquets resting against the bottom of my door.

Half an hour later, when I”m sure she”s truly gone, I retrieve the flowers and read the note.

Sono venuto per farti cambiare idea.

”I came to change your mind.”If she had caught me, she certainly would have been successful.

Inside, I find a vase and fill it with water and then her flowers, but I can”t bring myself to set it on the table. My kitchen table has become a sacred place since Zephyr adorned it. I haven”t even been able to eat a meal there.

The vase of flowers finds a place on the coffee table, but I can”t stay in the room with them.

Hours later, when I haven”t heard from her, I open the messages she sent from my porch and read through the progression from her usual bright demeanor asking if I”ll be back soon, to worrying if everything is all right, to assuring me that she won”t bother me anymore.

I should be relieved, but less than twenty-four hours later, after nearly no sleep and sending her several messages that she hasn”t even opened, I”m a man possessed, pounding my fist on her front door.

”Who the fuck are you?”

The man who answers Zephyr”s door does not look pleased to see me. The feeling is mutual.

”Who the fuck are you?”

Shouting at the man in front of me is proof that I”ve lost my mind. I don”t care that he”s bigger than me or that he”s looking at me with murder in his eyes. I care that he”s in my girl”s house and I”m ready to put up a fight to get through him.

”I”m Hurricane.” He growls at me like the name ought to mean something but all it means to me is that he”s still in my way.

”Where”s Zephyr? I need to talk to her.”

Hurricane-- if that”s his name-- crosses meaty arms across a barrel chest and glares at me. He”s much stockier than I am, but we”re similar in height, so at least I have that going for me.

”You”re that mafia dude from the power plant, right?”

He”s the first person to say it to my face, but it”s not like I don”t know what the locals are saying about me.

”Power plant, yes.” I straighten to my full height, which actually gives me nearly an inch over the behemoth blocking my way. ”Mafia, no.”

”What do you want with my sister?”

Hurricane. Cane. Sister. Got it. He”s her brother. Not the one she steals the flannel shirts from, that one doesn”t live on the mountain anymore. This one”s the one who used to play pro ball.

Standing face to face with Hurricane Hart, it”s easy to see how he could easily have had a career in professional sports.

The last thing I want to do is explain my relationship with fiore to her huge, and obviously very protective, older brother.

”She said she has something she wants to give me.”

But I can”t bring myself to lie to him either.