Chapter 6
(Marcus POV)
“More marketing.” I said flatly, as I stood in Tom’s office the next day. Aria sat across from her father, bright-eyed, expectant. She looked at me like last night was hanging between us in neon, but Tom didn’t see it. He never saw.
“She’s been good with social,” I continued, keeping my voice neutral. “Events, tasting room, front-facing work. Let her learn with you for a while.”
Tom leaned back, beaming. “Knew you’d come around to it. You’ve been hogging her for cellar work.”
“It’s not her strength,” I said quickly. “She’ll get more out of your side.”
Aria’s head snapped toward me. “Excuse me? I’ve been doing fine.”
I met her glare, steady. “Fine isn’t good enough here.”
Her eyes narrowed, green fire sparking. I didn’t flinch, but I felt it like a blade.
Tom clapped his hands. “That’s settled, then. Aria, you’ll shadow me at distributor meetings this week and help with scheduling. Marcus, keep her looped in but don’t expect any help from her.”
“I won’t,” I said. My plan tasted like betrayal.
Outside the office, she caught up with me in the hall.
“You can’t just…” She hissed, keeping her voice low as workers passed. “You’re banishing me to spreadsheets.”
“You’ll learn more from your father than you will from sorting leaves.”
“You’re punishing me.”
I stopped, turned to face her fully. “I’m protecting both of us.”
Her chin lifted, sharp and defiant. “From what, Marcus? From me?”
The heat in her words sank straight into my gut. I didn’t answer, because if I did, I’d tell her the truth: yes, from you and from myself.
Instead I said, “This isn’t optional. You report to your father this week.”
Her laugh was low, dangerous. “Strike four, Mr. Hale. You’ll regret this.”
And then she was gone, boots snapping down the hall, leaving me standing in the wreckage of a decision I already knew wouldn’t save me from anything.
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(Aria POV)
The lab wasn’t supposed to be open this late. But the door was unlocked, the lights humming, and curiosity has always been my worst habit. Plus, working with my dad proved to be more boring than I thought.
One second I was poking at beakers like I was back in school, and the next second the heavy door slammed shut behind me with a metallic click.
I twisted the handle. Nothing. “Seriously?” I muttered, yanking harder.
“Seriously,” came Marcus’s voice.
I spun. Of course it was him. He was at the door, keys on his belt, arms crossed like he’d been waiting for me to screw up.
“You can’t be in here alone,” he said evenly. “Chemicals. Equipment. Locks for a reason.”
“Not like I meant to get trapped.”
He pulled at the handle himself, frowned when it didn’t budge. “Deadbolt jammed.”
“You mean… we’re stuck?”
“For now.” He tried the radio. Static. A curse under his breath.
“So, no one’s going to barge in on us?”
“Unlikely.” He tried the radio again. No luck.
“Marcus, we didn’t get to finish that kiss a couple of days ago.” I reminded him. I close the space between us.
I tilted my head, lips parting, searching for his. This time he didn’t pull away. His mouth found mine hard, hungry, the taste of him flooding through me like wine, like something I’d been starving for.
I threw my arms around his neck, pressing closer, gasping when his tongue slid against mine, rough, claiming, desperate. The kiss was nothing like the barrel room, stolen and cut short. This was deeper, darker, like the part of him that had been fighting me finally snapped.
He pinned me gently against the counter, his hands braced on either side of me, his body flush against mine. Every nerve in me lit under the weight of him, the promise of what he could do if he let go completely. My hand went to his crotch; he was so hard.
“Marcus…” My voice broke between kisses, half-plea, half-prayer. I broke free and got on my knees. I had his belt undone and pants down in one swift motion. I wanted to touch him, taste him.
His hands twisted in my hair. I wanted him in my mouth, my lips parted to pleasure him. As soon as I made contact, I could hear the plea in his voice.
“Christ, no. Stop.” He yanked me up hard. He held me tight. “Too much.”
He groaned, kissed me again, harder, like he wanted to erase the words he had just uttered. His hand slid into my hair, tugging just enough to make me want him more.
And then he tore himself back, fixed his clothing, swearing under his breath, chest heaving. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “We can’t.”
I swallowed, dizzy, lips tingling. “You said that last time.”
His fingers brushed my cheek before he dragged his hand away, like it burned him to stop. “And I’ll keep saying it until one of us believes it.”
His radio sparked to life.
He said, “This is Channel One. The Lab door is stuck again.”
“Be right there.”
He gave me a quick kiss on my temple and said, “Don’t try that again, because next time, I won’t stop you.”
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(Marcus POV)
She was still on my mouth when I shoved her away. Still in my hands, in my head, in my goddamn blood. I told her no. I told her stop. And I didn’t mean a single word of it.
Driving home, my knuckles were white on the wheel. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, her lips swollen from mine, her voice breaking on my name, the way she dropped to her knees like she’d been born knowing how to undo me.
By the time I hit the back road, I couldn’t breathe. My cock was a steel bar against my zipper, throbbing with every memory of her mouth parting, her tongue just about to touch me. I swore, dragged one hand off the wheel, fumbling for my belt.
My fist closed around my cock, hard and desperate.
I groaned, head thumping back against the seat as I stroked harder, faster.
The wheel jerking in my other hand. It was reckless, dangerous, but Christ I couldn’t stop.
Heat coiled sharp and brutal, spilling over before I even meant it to.
My hips bucked, breath ragged, release tearing out of me in a hoarse sound that filled the cab.
I sat there after, chest heaving, hand sticky, shame burning. Her name was still on my lips when the tremor eased. Aria. Always Aria.
I shoved myself back together, disgust curling in my gut even as my body throbbed with the aftershock. I was supposed to be stronger than this. Better than this.
It wasn’t the first time. Christ, it was the second. Twice now I’d gotten myself off just from the thought of her, no skin, no touch, just Aria in my head, wrecking me.
I gripped the wheel tighter, fury burning hotter than shame. I wasn’t a man who begged his hand for relief like some teenager in the dark. I hadn’t needed that in years. But with her? With her, I was desperate.
Desperate to be inside her. Desperate to stop pretending restraint meant anything when my body already knew the truth.
Tom trusted me with his vineyard. With his crew. With his daughter. And there I was, two seconds from laying her across a lab bench and wrecking every line of that trust.
I poured a glass of water when I got home, hands shaking like I’d been drinking all night. It didn’t help. My throat was still full of her taste. My chest still heavy with her laugh, her defiance, her green eyes on fire, daring me to cross that line.
“Don’t try that again,” I’d told her. A lie I knew she heard for what it was. An invitation. A promise.
Because the truth is simple and lethal. Next time, I won’t stop.