Chapter 8
Eight
Sunrise crept through the bedroom curtains in shades of amber and rose, painting soft patterns across the twisted sheets. Devon blinked awake slowly, his body warm and relaxed, and realized Emery was still curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her breath steady against his chest.
They'd fallen asleep sometime after four in the morning, exhaustion and the comfort of not being alone finally pulling them under. Now, she slept peacefully, her dark hair spilling across the pillow and his shoulder, one hand resting over his heart.
He didn't dare move. Didn't dare disturb this moment.
The panic of last night had faded, replaced by something softer, more dangerous.
Devon looked down at her sleeping face—the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the slight furrow between her brows that suggested she dreamed of something troubling, the vulnerable set of her mouth—and felt something shift in his chest.
This was different.
Every relationship he'd ever had, had come with an expiration date.
He'd known it going in, accepted it, sometimes welcomed it. Gretchen had wanted more attention than he could give during harvest season. The relationship he’d been in before that had fizzled out after six months of pleasant but unremarkable dates.
Callie—God, what a disaster that had been both times—had wanted something he couldn't name and certainly couldn't provide.
But none of them had ever made him feel like this.
Like his heart might crack open just watching her sleep. Like the thought of her leaving Stone Bridge physically hurt. Like he wanted to wake up every morning and see her face first thing for the rest of his life.
The realization should have terrified him.
For months, he'd been fighting this pull toward her, telling himself it was just attraction, just chemistry, just the wrong timing making everything more intense.
He'd maintained those careful boundaries she'd requested, kept things professional despite every instinct screaming to pull her close.
But lying here with her in his arms, feeling her trust in the way she'd let herself fall asleep against him, he couldn't pretend anymore.
He was falling for her. Had been falling since that night three months ago when she'd looked at him with devastation in her eyes and asked him to stay. Maybe longer—maybe since that auction when he'd watched her passion for wine authentication light up her entire face.
And he was tired of fighting it.
His parents had this. They were the couple who still held hands at dinner after thirty-six years of marriage.
Bryson had found it with Riley, that once-in-a-lifetime love that had survived a decade apart and come back stronger.
Devon had watched them both and felt nothing but mild bewilderment at the intensity, the certainty, the absolute conviction that this person was it.
Now he understood.
Emery stirred against him, making a slight sound of protest as consciousness pulled her from sleep. Her hand flexed against his chest, fingers curling in his shirt, and then she went very still.
"Devon?" Her voice was rough with sleep, muffled against his shoulder.
"Right here."
She lifted her head slowly, blinking in the morning light filtering through the curtains. Her hair was a disaster, and she had the crease of the pillow imprinted on her cheek. She was absolutely beautiful.
“You’ve made a weird habit of spending the night,” she said, stating the obvious with the kind of solemnity that suggested she was still half-dreaming.
“I don’t think it’s weird at all,” he whispered. “Besides, I promised I would." Devon tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "How'd you sleep?"
"Better than I should have after someone broke in." She didn't pull away from his touch. Instead, she seemed to lean into it slightly. "You?"
"Best sleep I've had in months."
That earned him a small smile. "Even after everything that happened?"
"Especially after everything that happened." His fingers traced the line of her jaw. "You're safe. That's all that matters."
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition of what he wasn't quite saying. Her green eyes searched his face, looking for something, and Devon let her look. Hoped she’d see whatever she needed to see.
"Devon," she whispered, and the way she said his name—like a question, like a prayer—made his breath catch.
He cupped her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. "I'm done pretending this is just professional interest. I'm done keeping my distance because it's the smart thing to do."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'm falling for you. Have been for months. And I'm tired of fighting it."
Her breath hitched. For a moment, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then she leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters.
But when Devon responded, pulling her closer, the kiss deepened into something more.
She shifted in his arms, her hands sliding up to frame his face, and he forgot about boundaries and professionalism and all the very good reasons they should take this slow.
Her mouth was warm and sweet, and she made a slight sound in the back of her throat when he traced her bottom lip with his tongue. The sound went straight through him.
"Emery," he murmured against her mouth. "We should—"
“No more should or shouldn’t.” She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Don't tell me we should slow down, or think about this, or be smart. If last night taught me anything, it’s that life is too short not to be honest about certain things.”
"What does that mean?"
"I want this. Want you." Her fingers threaded through his hair. "And I'm tired of all the reasons we shouldn't. I know it’s a risk to both my career and this winery, and if you want to get out of this bed, I’d understand. I’m just telling you I don’t want to play it safe anymore.”
Devon searched her face, looking for doubt, for fear, for any sign this was the adrenaline and trauma of last night talking. But all he saw was certainty and desire and something that looked a lot like the feelings he'd just confessed.
"You're sure?"
"I've never been surer of anything."
That was all the permission he needed. Devon kissed her again, deeper this time, pouring months of suppressed longing into the contact. She responded with equal intensity, her body pressing against his, her hands exploring the planes of his chest through his shirt.
His hands found the curve of her waist, the warm skin just beneath the hem of her shirt, and she arched into his touch with a soft gasp that made his pulse spike.
"I've wanted this," she breathed against his mouth. "Wanted you. For so long."
Devon rolled, bringing her beneath him, caging her body with his as he kissed a path along her jaw, down the column of her throat. She arched beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders, and laughed—actually laughed—a sound so light and free it made his chest ache.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing. Everything." Her fingers traced the muscles of his back. "I just—this feels right. For the first time in months, something feels completely right."
Devon lifted his head to look at her, his heart hammering against his ribs. Long brown hair pooled around her head, framing her face as she gazed up at him. The intimacy of the moment—her there, looking at him like that—hit him hard. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"You're gorgeous," he whispered.
"That's my line."
His hands found the hem of her shirt, fingers hesitating at the fabric. "Tell me to stop if you need to."
"I'm not going to tell you to stop."
He pulled the shirt up and over her head, and she helped him, laughing again when her hair got caught in the neckline. The sound was intoxicating—joy mixed with desire, trust blended with want.
His lips brushed against her shoulder, following the path his fingers had traced.
He tasted the salt of her skin, the sweet hint of vanilla.
The scent of her was intoxicating, a heady blend of vanilla and something uniquely her—something that made him want to bury his face in her neck and just breathe her in.
Kissing her again, he explored her in layers of silky whispers and searing touches.
Emery gasped at the heat of his mouth against her skin, her fingernails scraping lightly against the back of his neck.
The sound turned his blood into a river of fire coursing through his veins.
He committed the fervor of her breathless whimpers to memory, relishing the way her body arched towards him like a flower straining for sunlight.
He slid his fingers down her body, tracing a path along the ridges of her ribs, circling her hips.
Her skin was warm, silky against his touch, and he could feel the gentle rise of her breathing beneath his hand.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as his fingers traveled further south, tracing the elastic band of her panties.
She rewarded him with a shudder, her hips bucking up to meet his touch.
This—being with her—it was like coming home. A thought that was both shocking and humbling at the same time.
"Devon," she breathed, lifting her head, dark eyes sparkling in the morning light.
Her voice, so sultry and thick with lust. The echo of his name on her lips, the way she bit her lower lip, the exposed, tantalizing stretch of her neck—everything came together in a mesmerizing symphony of temptation.
His eyes traced every contour, every line, every mark. He followed the path of his touch and watched as his fingers skimmed over the material of her underwear. The play of her body beneath his touch demanded to be explored.