Zoe Brennan, First Crush

Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

After we wave goodbye to our friends and watch the last taillights disappear into the settling dusk, it’s just me, Laine, and a deep, joyful contentment that’s flowed through my body ever since Marisol’s call, whispering we could and we did and we will .

When Laine’s eyes find mine, their rich brown has gone as dark as the sky. I feel like I could wander inside them and never find my way back.

I entwine my fingers with hers. “Come on.”

“Where we going?” Laine pulls my hand to her mouth and kisses my knuckles softly, one by one.

“You’ll see.”

I lead her into the fallow field, where a large tub sits waiting, its wooden slats pointing straight into the air, ending roughly waist high. Strands of bulb lights ring the tub’s perimeter on flower-pot poles. They sway lightly in the mountain breeze, casting their flickering light across the scene I’ve set.

“No … ” Laine’s eyes widen as she runs her hand reverently over the rim of the giant wooden barrel River built for a previous Community Harvest. “Is this a replica from the grape-stomping scene in—”

“ I Love Lucy , yep.”

Laine laughs, returning my big, happy smile, then peers inside. “It’s filled with grapes!”

“It’s the unusable stock. We usually host a grape crush the night of the first Community Harvest, but after the Everyday Bon Vivant news, I decided these grapes are just for us.” I smile, strangely nervous that Laine won’t understand why this tradition means so much to me. Why sharing it with her, and only her, means so much more.

Nobody makes wine like this anymore—have you seen people’s feet? But the weighty tradition connects me to this ancient art that’s existed long before I was born and will last long after I die. It’s comforting, being a part of something eternal. Joining my mother there, in the crush of grapes, the pour of wine, where she still lingers. Mom’s hands under my arms, lowering my tiny body onto the crushing pad, laughing as I laughed, delighting in my delight with each popping burst beneath my little feet. I find her memories waiting for me each time I step inside and share that delight with friends, letting their laughter fill me where I’m empty.

I want to join Laine there, too. In the eternal. Infuse this tradition with her and now and all the happiness I feel.

She hauls off her shoes in a funny hopping-stumbling-run heading straight for the grapes. “I’ve always wanted to do this!”

My own smile stretches as she swings her legs over the edge and lands with a squish. Laine swipes at her hair dangling in front of her eyes, laughing as she squelches through the grapes beneath her feet. “This is so—weirdly—satisfying! Coming in?”

She holds out a hand, her twinkling eyes a gift only for me. I want to memorize this perfect image of her. Laine, calf-deep in a wooden barrel filled with pale green grapes. Her strong thighs holding her steady, the rivets of muscle fascinating me before disappearing beneath a layer of black bike shorts that honestly? Should be illegal for the workplace. I’ve been staring at the peach of her ass all day. Her thin gray tank kisses her everywhere I want to, revealing the inky bluebells etched into her skin, the muscular set of her shoulders, and the heady contrast they make with the swell of her breasts. Her body is a topographical map, with dips and valleys and long expanses of smooth skin I know are there and wish my fingers could travel across. And her face?

It’s beautiful. Without any effort and after a long day of sweaty work that began at dawn, Laine Woods is still unfairly, incomprehensibly beautiful. The day’s sheen makes her high cheekbones glimmer, and her lips are full and lush and alive. More than that, I love how this edition of Laine is transposed on all those that came before, from teen soccer star Char laine, to grown Laine glimpsed on her rare visits home, to Napa-snob Laine who made faces at each of our best-selling wines. And now, this Laine, her eyes lingering on my face like I’m the sunrise, and she’s gotten up early just to see me. Happy-to-be-here Laine.

My Laine .

Before I can second-guess it, I whip out my phone and take a picture of her standing in the grapes she grew for my family. For me .

“Hey, you sneaky little paparazzo. Get in here, or I’ll drag you in myself.”

I huff out a laugh, though the thought of Laine putting me anywhere leashes my desire and yanks . “Oh, will you now?” I kick off my shoes and socks, abandon my phone and keys, and launch myself into the barrel. Not trying to brag, but I’ve been known to do cannonballs in here. I tumble straight into Laine, and we’re both laughing as I yip and curse and knock her off balance into the grapes.

“Save me!” I yell theatrically as my head starts to sink below the surface. I reach a hand above the skim of grapes and burble loudly for dramatic effect since there’s almost no juice in here yet. Laine yanks me up, pulling me to where she sits, back propped up against the barrel.

“Save you?” She pants with laughter as I struggle to right myself before falling into her again. “I should let you drown for taking me down like that.”

Our chests are pressed together, me lying halfway on top of her. Even without moving, the grapes continue to pop beneath us, little bursts tickling the tops of my thighs and stomach. I glance up at her, not quite breathing from the proximity. Laine’s eyes are dark and playful.

“Laine?”

“Yes, baby?”

“There’s something you should know …” I clear my throat, then retrieve a cluster of grapes that tangled into a crown upon my head and hold them up to the light.

“I play dirty.” Then I resolutely squash them right into her ear.

Laine gasps in outrage, and I can’t help it, I giggle .

Her eyes narrow, and an evil smile alights on her face. She flings the grape cluster to the side and pulls me back down. “Oh, it’s on !”

I’ve never participated in a mud-wrestling match before, but I’d guess it’s something like this as Laine topples me sideways in a spray of bursting grapes. This time, she’s on top of me, though her torso is splayed across my hips like we’re a human plus sign. She’s so strong it’s no contest at all, but like I said, I play dirty. I smush more grapes into her face, and she sputters, spitting them away and laughing hysterically as she tries to maintain her pin on me. I wriggle out, sliding easily in the slick, juicy grapes, my nipples burning they’re so hard from the symphony of sensations against my body. The press of Laine’s hot skin slipping against mine, her tight, furtive grips around my wrists, sticky bursts against my sore arm, the full, heavy weight of her across my lap, then landing between my legs, and the pressure there, good god , it’s all I can do not to drag my aching core against her. Our laughter is heady as tears stream down our faces, our wriggling and shoving losing steam as other impulses heat and begin to sizzle.

If Laine’s eyes were dark before, they’re positively molten now, and I feel their heat burning across my face, my neck, the juice dripping down my V-neck shirt, into the tunnel between my breasts.

“Wait a second,” I say breathlessly, then shove up to sitting. “There’s something else I want to share with you.”

Laine reluctantly lets me go, then helps me to my feet. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t know whether to trust me or pin me down again, lest I try more bullshit.

I wade over to the edge, then reach behind the barrel for the bottle of wine and two glasses I’d stowed there.

“Is that—” Laine takes the bottle gently from my hands, one of the last three of my mother’s famous reds. She glances up at me with a tentative hope. “Are you sure you want to open this?”

I run my hand up and along her arm until it rests on her shoulder, then trail the other one up to meet it around her neck. “We have a lot to celebrate.”

“Zoe Brennan, as I live and breathe,” she says, almost purring as I draw her closer. “Are you courting me back?”

“Maybe.” I grin. “Though my idea of courting involves a lot more fucking.”

Laine’s jaw tightens, her eyes smoldering as they pin me with her gaze, and I feel the responsive kick of giddy desire deep in my belly. She places the wine and glasses carefully back out, then grabs me roughly by the hips, pulling me closer. My mouth falls open in a gasp the instant before she takes it with a fierce, unyielding kiss. Across my body, synapses crackle with energy, pulsing the heady, delicious news like a heartbeat through every bit of my core: Laine, Laine, Laine , Laine .

One of her hands travels down my ass, grabbing the low curve where cheek meets leg. It’s a tender spot, and her possessive, commanding touch weakens my knees. Her other hand pushes between us, finding my pussy and squeezing it roughly through my shorts. I moan, my body responding to the gruff, physical expression of her desire.

“You’ve been torturing me all fucking summer, boss,” Laine urges into the shell of my ear. “Do you know how bad I’ve wanted to do this to you?” She squeezes my pussy again, and the hot ache blooming there tells me I’m already slick and wet, ready to be punished for my transgressions. “How many times I’ve wanted to turn you around and throw you against the bar, slide your panties down, and devour you?”

I gasp as her hand dives beneath the front of my shorts, finding my throbbing clit and offering the hard, unforgiving heel of her palm to it.

“That night in your window, Zoe, I swear to god.” Her middle finger slides inside me, hooking into me, trapping me.

As if I’d ever want to leave.

“You fucking ruined me that night,” she says hoarsely into my ear, punctuating each word with a bite. “ Ruined me. Do you understand?” I’m trapped, but she is, too, locked in and around my body, pumping into me mercilessly as though making me come into oblivion is exactly the revenge she’s looking for.

“I— yes ,” I confess as I clench around her finger. She slides another in, and I suck in my breath, trying not to buck against her. But the hand on my ass urges me forward, her fingers driving deeper within, while mine curl against her neck, crazed with the desire to own her body the way she’s owning mine. The first time, our sex was tentative, exploring, then fell into a delicious stride as our bodies learned each other. Beneath the blindfolds, we were equals, removed from our history together, from my idolization and her indifference. But now, the woman ravaging my body is Laine Woods , and this time, our past charges the very air I’m gasping, mingling with our present, too.

It’s amazing .

My frozen fingers turn to sharp points, and I drag my nails up and into her hair. Her mouth falls open, and her eyes flutter back for an instant before returning to mine, even hungrier than before. How many times did I imagine this? Not the sex—when I was in high school, I barely comprehended what that would entail—but her looking at me, seeing me , like this. I feel like an invisible woman, finally given shape and color and recognized at last, and it’s the rest of the world’s turn to be forgotten.

Her eyes fix upon me like I’m the one thing that matters, and I’m hers . She commands me with her hands to come for her, seizing control over me and gripping it tight. And this, this , is the sex I’ve imagined when she walks into the winery like she owns the place, her tanned skin gleaming with sweat. Laine in charge, just like she’s always been.

But I’m the boss now.

I pull her head back by the hair and sink my mouth upon her long, luscious neck. She tastes like sun and sweet and Laine , like every horny thought I’ve ever had, and the long, low moan she gives when I run my teeth across her collarbone gratifies me in a primal place, puckering low in my belly. And just like that, the dynamic changes. Now she’s in my thrall, doing my bidding, as I trace the tattoos stretched across her chest with my tongue, kissing and biting in response to the fierce ache she’s building inside me.

“Do you know how much you’ve tortured me , Laine Woods? Making me want you so bad I hurt , then telling me no?” I yank down a strap of her tank top, and her dark eyes flicker to the movement, almost nervous, but her hands keep striding against me, too intent on making me come.

“Well, you can’t stop me now.” My voice is edged with fierce petulance, the words thrilling me because they’re true . I yank down the other strap. “You won’t.”

“I won’t,” Laine whispers. “ I won’t, baby. ”

I slip my hands down the rim of her shirt, the hard knot of her nipples dragging against my sticky palms, and it almost sends me over the edge. Laine Woods here, with me , working my pussy like that’s the job I hired her for. Her breasts in my hands, then my mouth, crimping in pleasure from the firm press of my tongue. I’m in utter, delicious control. The Zoe I was, who I still am sometimes, would happily lie beneath the crushing weight of Laine’s desire and let it pulverize me, squash me like grapes into a glorious nothing, then beg, weeping, for more.

But the Zoe I am now has other inclinations. The kind that want to dominate, command, break down the myth of Laine that’s ruled me half my life and consume it piece by piece.

Because the real thing is so much better .

As I close my lips around a perfect nipple, the final string is strummed within me. The orgasm trembles, shudders, then explodes throughout my body, like a bomb detonated in a steel box. I don’t know how my skin contains these waves of pleasure streaming outward. I don’t know how I’m still standing. I rock into Laine’s chest, the hand cupping my ass steadying me, but still she refuses to let me go. Her palm feels part of me now, devoured by my flesh, and the brief second it’s gone sends me reeling until her rock-hard thigh takes its place. I moan in relief as I grind against her leg, pitiful with wanting. She grips my hips, pulling me down onto her as she drives into me, the pressure so hard it feels like I might split with ecstasy.

When the pleasure threatens to overwhelm me, I push her off, which only kicks the desire in her eyes up more. We’re battling each other again, this time with our bodies and needs instead of words and opinions on wine and how to prune a goddamn vine. Each gasp of the other is a blow, each trembling touch an opponent faltering, and when I yank down the rim of her bike shorts and fall to my knees before her, spreading her legs until her crux is revealed, hard, wet, and mine : victory.

Her hands dive into my hair, pulling from the roots, the pain mixing with the pleasure of making her cry out. I suck her clit greedily, grabbing her ass and holding her to my face.

“ You are mine ,” I whisper into her, half delirious with the want spiraling through my body. “ Mine. Mine. Mine. ” I punctuate each pronouncement with a flick of my tongue, circling for the kill as she grips my head and forces me closer. Maybe it’s not normal to bring this kind of competition to sex, this battle of wills and power grabs, but Laine and I have been fighting against each other one way or the other since she got here. Against each other’s views, wants, and needs. Against our own wants and needs. Against our past selves and perceptions of the other and perhaps even our own futures. Against our fears. It’s been a battle to get this far, but unlike any other fight I’ve had, I’ve never enjoyed the ring more. When she thrusts against my mouth in a wild, fierce release, her moan becomes my proudest achievement.

Fuck honor roll, I made Laine Woods come .

And this time, she knows it was me.

When we lie back in our bed of grapes, Laine’s arm nestled behind my neck, the fight’s gone all out of me. Out of us both, judging by the way her fingers dance lightly on my skin and the tilt of her head resting against mine. I’m too tired from the long day of harvest and evening of wildly cathartic sex to spin out, which is my normal go-to after a particularly delightful round of orgasms. But tonight, the animal of my anxiety is resting. Maybe somewhere deep inside my brain where it likes to cower, it realizes that catastrophizing would be too easy, too fruitful, too enormous for the dwindling reservoir of energy I have right now. I already depended on her for my family’s livelihood; now I’ve thrown my stupid heart into the mix, too. But while these thoughts usually send my heart racing, all I feel now is sleepy and content. Maybe this is the peaceful resignation that comes in the face of annihilation, when you’re helpless to stand by and watch the beginning of your own end.

But, maybe not , a small voice insists inside of me.

“Tonight’s been perfect,” Laine murmurs into my hair, making my scalp prickle all the way down my neck.

“Mmm,” I agree. “One thing’s left, though. To make it perfecter.”

“Perfecter?” Laine says through a smile I can hear.

“When you’re already in the realm of perfect, and yet there’s more to delight.” I stand and reach over the barrel’s edge until I find the bottle of my mother’s red. “Perfecter.”

She nods. “Consider it entered into the Laine Lexicon.”

The cork comes off with a satisfying thunt , and the rich, almost leathery smell of tannins long mellowed fills my nose. Laine’s eyes roll back in her head as she takes a deep pull of the aroma.

“This is going to be so good ,” she says when her irises reappear, then scrambles to sit up properly, giddy. I’m glad she recognizes the gravitas of this situation and is appropriately thrilled.

I for one cannot speak. Opening a bottle of this wine is as close to a religious act as I get. The tawny garnet slides down the bell of each glass, glazing it in a smooth, jewel wash of red. As it pours, its rich aroma lifts around us—black cherry and tart red plum, the smooth, mineralish air of crushed gravel, followed by cedar and cream. And the taste is more than the refined balance of acid and sugar, of heady tannins long tamed and spicy oak, and it’s more than the feel of its serene swim down my throat, the heat efflorescing through my cheeks. It’s the taste of summers long gone, spent in the shade of my mother’s favorite tree. It’s her fingers in my hair, braiding the strands back while I read The Boxcar Children and pondered whether I could survive on my own, too, not knowing how soon I’d be forced to do just that.

I close my eyes and let the wine loll across my tongue, bringing me back in time as it always does. It’s the smell of my mother’s clothes after a long day in the winery, pressed against my nose in the first hug after school. It’s the sound of my father’s unburdened laugh, the scent that lingered in his tickling mustache when he kissed my forehead good night. This wine is from better days I no longer have access to. From seasons past, made by hands that no longer create. It is finite. A portal to my family’s happiness that closes more with each swallow.

I open my eyes and find Laine’s.

“Do you feel it, too?” The words come out choked. “The magic?”

Laine puts her glass down and takes my face in her hands, brushing the tears from my cheeks with her thumbs. “It’s amazing, Zoe. Unreal. Perfect, perfecter, perfect est . Like you.”

And she kisses me, the memories traveling between our lips, bitter and sweet with a full, luscious body all its own. When she pulls away breathless, she touches her forehead to mine, hands still cupping my face. “What are you so afraid of, baby?”

A million things. But most of all: “This,” I answer, too tired to be anything but honest. I rest my cheek in her palm. “Needing you. You leaving.” Like everyone else , I think. “And at times, Rachel.” We both huff at that, but the joke doesn’t wash away the truth of my admission, or the unfettered view of my intense vulnerability it provides.

“I can’t imagine ever leaving you,” Laine says softly, brushing a stem from my hair. “This is all I want.” Her finger skims lightly along my jaw, desire flowing through the small, simple touch.

“How can you know that, though?” I laugh a little through my swollen throat as her finger traces its way down it. “This just began.”

“No, it didn’t,” Laine says. “It began fifteen years ago. It’s just now getting interesting, is all.”

I want to believe her, but flowing beneath these feelings swirling between us is a deep current of fear that refuses to be banished overnight.

But maybe, with time, it could .

“Now.” Laine’s voice turns all business as she leans back against the barrel, then taps both hands to her chest, indicating for me to come here . She gives me that wicked smile.

“Shut up and sit on my face, boss.”