Chapter 7 Snapper
SNAPPER
Every inch of me ached. Not just my rock-hard cock, but my hands that were no longer on Saffron’s body.
My lips and tongue that were starved for her.
And my heart, because I wanted her to tell me what I already knew and, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to admit to me.
That nearly crushed me. If she didn’t believe in me enough to tell me her family was in trouble, then I couldn’t trust that intimacy between us would matter as much to her as it would to me.
The worst part was knowing she wanted me.
The kiss proved that. The way she’d melted against me, the way she’d kissed me back like her life depended on it—that wasn’t fake.
But the second I’d asked for truth, for her to let me in past those walls she kept so high, she’d rebuilt them brick by brick right in front of me.
I parked my truck in front of the main house and sat in the darkness while the engine ticked as it cooled.
The photo we’d found earlier—the one with Marilyn, Concepción, and the mystery Ellen woman—sat on the passenger seat where I’d tossed it after leaving Saffron’s.
I picked it up and viewed it again under the dome light, as if staring at it long enough would reveal who this woman was and what role she’d played in destroying the wine collaboration.
I looked up at the mostly dark windows. Sunday dinner had ended hours ago, and everyone had gone home or to bed. I should do the same. Head to my place in Paso Robles, get some sleep, and figure out what the hell to do tomorrow.
But I couldn’t make myself move. I couldn’t stop tasting her on my lips or feeling the phantom touch of her hands in my hair.
The kitchen light was still on, which surprised me at almost eleven on a Sunday night. I grabbed the photo and went inside.
“Back already?” Tryst asked when I found him sitting at the counter. “I thought you’d be gone longer.” He took one look at my face, and his expression shifted. “What happened?”
“She won’t do it.” I dropped onto the stool across from him. “I showed her the bottle, explained we could have it analyzed and get everything we need. She refused.”
“Because?”
“She says it’s too important. Part of both our families’ histories. That we can’t destroy the only evidence the wine ever existed.” I ran a hand through my hair. “She’s not wrong. But without the formula...”
“You’ll find it,” said Tryst with certainty. “You have time.”
“Do we?” My response came out harsher than I intended. “I don’t know how much time we actually have.”
Tryst moved to the cabinet and reached for two rocks glasses and the bottle of whiskey bottle he knew was kept on the top shelf. He poured two generous measures and passed one over to me.
I took a drink and welcomed the burn.
“What else happened tonight?” he asked.
Everything. Nothing. I kissed her, and she kissed me back, and then she shut down the second I asked her to confide in me.
But I couldn’t say that. Not yet.
Instead, I took the photo out of my pocket and set it on the counter. “We found this. Three women—Marilyn Hope, Concepción Avila, and someone identified only as Ellen on the back.”
Tryst picked up the photo and angled it toward the light. His brow furrowed. “Ellen,” he murmured. “I don’t recognize her.”
“Neither do we. But according to Concepción’s journal, E, who we’ve determined is Ellen, wouldn’t allow them to make the wine again.”
“And you think she held part of the formula.”
“Maybe. She obviously had something to do with it, or they would’ve made it again the following year on their own.” I took another drink.
Tryst continued studying the photo, then shook his head. “I don’t know her. But some of the other Viejos might. Men whose fathers were making wine in 1955—they might have heard stories, seen photos.”
Hope flickered in my chest. “You think so?”
“It’s worth asking.” He set the photo down carefully. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow. See what I can dig up.”
“Thank you.”
He refilled both our glasses even though mine wasn’t quite empty. “You look exhausted, Salazar. You have an early morning tomorrow—walking the vineyards with Saffron at dawn, yes?”
“I am.”
“Then, go home. Get some rest. This will still be here in the morning, and you’ll need your wits about you.”
He was right. I was running on fumes and emotion, neither of which would help me tomorrow.
I finished my whiskey, pocketed the photo, and stood. “Thanks, Tío.”
“De nada, mijo.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And, Salazar? Don’t give up on her. She’s worth fighting for.”
My throat tightened. “I know she is.”
The drive to my house took fifteen minutes through dark, winding roads. When I turned onto my street, I immediately noticed that Kick’s place was lit up, and there was a car in his driveway.
I slowed as I passed, trying to get a better look at the vehicle. It was small, dark-colored—a sedan maybe. The same kind of car I’d seen leaving Saffron’s driveway earlier tonight when I’d arrived.
Was it the same? I couldn’t be sure in the darkness. And even if it was, what did that mean? That Saffron’s “friend from town” was now at Kick’s place?
None of my business, I reminded myself. Kick’s personal life was his own.
But the coincidence nagged at me as I arrived at my house and parked in the garage.
My house in Paso Robles sat on three acres just outside downtown, separated from Kick’s nearly identical property by a stand of oak trees.
We’d bought them five years ago, when rodeo winnings had started piling up faster than we could spend them.
His property was on the left, mine on the right, and both had been designed by the same architect who’d managed to make them feel like home rather than showpieces.
Mine was a single-story modern farmhouse with clean lines and lots of glass. Stone and wood and metal combined in ways that shouldn’t work, but did.
I kicked off my boots by the door, hung up my jacket, and headed straight for the kitchen. I needed another drink. Or maybe I needed to stop drinking and go to bed like Tryst had suggested.
Instead, I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle I’d opened last night—a ten-year-old Cabernet—and carried it into the living room. I flipped the switch for the gas fireplace and dropped onto the leather sofa.
I should go to bed and try to sleep, because tomorrow was going to be a long day. Walking three different vineyard blocks, checking ripeness levels, making harvest plans. All while behaving as if my entire world hadn’t shifted on its axis tonight when I kissed Saffron Hope.
I took a drink of wine and rested my head against the sofa back.
When had this happened? When had Saffron stopped being just a friend—the woman who saved me from Isabel every year at the auction—and become someone I couldn’t stop thinking about?
Or had she always been this to me, and I’d never taken enough time to allow myself to think about it?
Like Bit had said earlier, maybe she saw me as the guy who was never around, who spent ten months a year on the rodeo circuit, chasing buckles and prize money and glory.
Why would she think I’d stick around a minute longer than I had to?
Why would she accept I wanted her for more than just right now?
I closed my eyes and let myself remember the kiss. The way she’d tasted—sweet and warm and perfect. The little gasp she’d made when I deepened it, when my tongue had touched hers, still echoed in my memory. She’d pulled me closer instead of pushing me away—God, that had been heaven.
My cock hardened as I remembered the way her body had felt pressed against mine. Her soft curves against hard muscle. The way she’d risen up on her toes to get closer, to take more, drove me crazy. The little sounds she’d made in the back of her throat had driven me absolutely insane.
Instead of taking the cold shower I needed to cool myself the fuck off, I let myself imagine what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stopped. If I hadn’t demanded honesty and walked away. If I’d kept kissing her, kept touching her.
My hand dropped to my lap, and I adjusted myself through my jeans.
I was rock-hard now and aching with want.
My mind wandered further, imagining peeling the clothes off her body.
What she was wearing should’ve been forgettable, but it wasn’t.
From the minute I’d walked into her house, I couldn’t keep my eyes off how it hugged her curves.
I imagined sliding my hands under that Henley and feeling her warm skin. The thought made me groan out loud.
I’d pull that shirt over her head, kiss her neck, and feel her pulse racing under my lips. She’d tilt her head back, giving me better access. I’d take my time, learn every inch of her skin, and find every spot that made her gasp or moan or dig her nails into my shoulders.
My hand moved to my belt buckle. This was a terrible idea, and I should stop. I should go take that cold shower after all. But I didn’t.
I freed myself from my jeans and wrapped my hand around my cock, hissing at the contact.
I imagined her on my bed, spread out on the dark gray sheets.
She’d look up at me, equally nervous and wanting.
I’d take my time undressing her and savoring every reveal.
The curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips—I’d memorize every freckle, every mark, every perfect imperfection.
Then I’d put my mouth on her. I’d taste every inch of her skin and learn what made her arch her back and cry out my name. I’d take her nipple into my mouth and feel it harden against my tongue. She’d thread her fingers through my hair again, holding me there, telling me exactly what she wanted.
I’d kiss my way down her stomach and settle between her thighs. She’d be wet for me—I knew she would. I’d taste her, take my time making her come on my tongue before I ever pushed inside her.
My hand worked over my cock now, and the friction was not enough and too much all at once.
I imagined the sounds she’d make when I entered her.
The way she’d feel wrapped around me, hot and tight.
I’d start slow and let her adjust, even though every instinct would be screaming at me to move, to take, to claim.
But I’d make it good for her. I’d make it so good she’d never want anyone else and never think about anyone but me.
I’d kiss her while I thrust hard, swallowing her every moan and gasp. She’d wrap her legs around my waist so I’d go deeper. Her nails would rake down my back, marking me and claiming me right back.
She’d say my name—not Snapper, but Salazar. The name only my family used, the name that meant something more. She’d gasp it against my mouth as she got close, as I felt her start to tighten around me.
“Salazar, please—”
I’d give her everything. I’d move faster, harder, exactly the way she needed. I’d reach between us and play with her clit, then feel her fall apart. She’d come with my name on her lips, and that would be it for me. I’d follow her over, bury myself deep, and empty everything I had into her body.
We’d collapse together, sweaty and satisfied. She’d curl into my side and trace idle lines on my chest while we both caught our breath. I’d hold her close and press a kiss to the top of her head. I’d tell her that she was mine and I was hers and nothing else mattered.
I came hard, and my body tensed as release rolled through me. I bit back the groan and rode it out, my hand still moving until the last aftershock faded. Then I slumped back against the couch, breathing hard and staring at the ceiling.
Jesus Christ. I needed to get my head on straight. Yeah, it had been a while since I’d been with a woman. Not that any other woman would do anymore. It was Saffron or nobody. How had that thought gone from maybe to carved in stone?
I cleaned myself off with tissues from the side table and was about to head to the bedroom when my phone buzzed. I almost ignored it, thinking it would be one of my brothers checking in. Instead, when I reached for it, I saw a text from Saffron.
Thank you for wanting to help me. I’m sorry I didn’t say that earlier, before you left.
I stared at the message for several seconds. She was reaching out and extending an olive branch, maybe, or just being polite. I couldn’t tell.
All is forgiven, I wrote back.
Three dots appeared immediately. They disappeared, then appeared again, and I ran out of patience.
I can’t stop thinking about our kiss, I wrote, hitting send before I could talk myself out of it.
This time, the dots were replaced by a message in a matter of seconds.
I can’t stop thinking about it either.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I wish I was still there.
The dots appeared again. This time, they lasted longer, and I could picture her deleting and retyping, trying to figure out what to say and how much to admit.
Finally—I wish you were too.
Then, before I could reply, Good night, Snapper.
I set the phone down, and a stupid smile spread across my face despite everything.
She wanted me. She’d as good as admitted it. All I had to do was figure out how to get her to trust me enough that we wouldn’t start this thing with secrets between us.
I headed to the bedroom, hoping I was relaxed enough now to sleep. Tomorrow, I’d see her at dawn. We’d walk the vineyards together, check the grapes, and make plans for the harvest.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to break through those walls she kept building between us.