Chapter 4 Belong Together #2
“Fine is unacceptable.” I back away, turn her, and press her torso down against the table. Then, I gather the hem of her dress up around her waist, exposing black lace covering the most glorious ass on the planet.
“Fine is a challenge.” I draw the fabric down her thighs, my mouth watering with anticipation. Crouching behind her, I spread her with my hands and find her clit with my tongue, flicking, then withdrawing. “Take it back.”
She clutches the edge of the table, her cane clattering to the stone floor. “Take what back?”
I suck, then lash her with my tongue. “Your ‘fine.’”
“What happens if I don’t?”
I groan and laugh. “I suppose I have to work harder.”
Somewhere above us, muffled through stone and timber, there’s a distant thump. Then voices. Then more thumps.
I ignore them.
Franki freezes. “Henry.”
“Someone probably dropped a tray,” I murmur.
Another thump sounds. Louder. Closer. Followed by a distinctly irritated voice. “Why is this locked?”
“Henry,” Franki hisses.
“He’ll go away,” I reassure her.
Another voice filters through the door. “I don’t understand. Where is the key?”
Franki pushes herself upright. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.
As the voices outside our haven continue, I rise, pull her clothing into place, and retrieve her cane for her.
Franki turns to face me, her cheeks and chest flushed red, and rearranges the top of her dress.
I tuck myself away, an uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous feat, then rest my forehead against Franki’s, breathing her in. “We were very close,” I say mournfully.
She snorts, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep quiet.
Through her fingers, she whispers, “We can’t go out there when you still have that.” She indicates the erection clearly tenting the front of my pants.
Outside the door, voices multiply.
“I need access to the cellar now.” I’d recognize Lucinda’s sharp tone anywhere.
“The keys were here earlier,” another voice says.
“There’s supposed to be a wine selection pulled for dinner!”
Franki’s eyes widen.
“It’s not my fault that woman is incompetent,” I say with exasperation. “The wine is already in the kitchen.”
Someone rattles the handle.
Franki presses her face into my shoulder. I rub slow circles into her back, soothing and regretful.
“We should’ve known this would happen,” she whispers.
“I’ll plan better next time,” I murmur.
From the shuffle outside, an ominous question filters in. “Do you think someone’s in there?”
“No,” says another voice. “Who would be in there?”
I straighten and retrieve my glasses. Franki fixes my bow tie, her cheeks on fire.
“Here’s what we’ll do.” I grab a large bottle of wine from the rack on the wall and hold it in front of my still-rampant erection. “We’re going to walk out calmly,” I say. “With dignity.”
She looks at me with wide eyes.
“We’re married. To each other. This isn’t a scandal, love,” I say.
“Everyone is going to know we just had sex in a wine cellar,” she hisses.
“We were prevented from having sex. It’s not the same thing at all.”
“Henry!”
If it were just about me, I’d stroll out and tell them what I do with my own wife behind a locked door is none of their damned business.
But it’s not about me. “I’ll block their line of sight. You won’t have to interact with anyone,” I promise. “Stay directly behind me.”
She nods, and I unlock the door.
It swings open to reveal—people. A lot of them—all crammed into the corridor as if musing over a locked door is a spectator sport.
Caterers. Waitstaff. A sommelier clutching a clipboard. Lucinda vibrating with contained fury. At least one person stands, open-mouthed, clutching a breadbasket to her chest. My father leans against the far-left wall.
The corridor goes silent.
Franki lets out a tiny squeak and steps closer to me, pressing against my back.
“Hello,” I say pleasantly. “There appears to be a bottleneck.”
The planner stares at me. Then at the wine cellar behind us. Then at me again. Her mouth opens. Closes. “You.”
I smile innocently. Franki buries her face between my shoulder blades.
“The wine,” the planner finally manages. “We needed the wine.”
“I can see how that would be concerning, but the wine for dinner has already been moved to the kitchen. My wife and I needed to find our own bottle for a special toast.”
The sommelier frowns. “The wedding couple have chosen a lovely local Furore Bianco,” he says in his thick Italian accent. “It will work well for a toast with dinner.”
“A lovely wine, it is. But the McRae family has a tradition. We toast with”—I glance down at the bottle in my hand—“Chianti. For good luck. A . . . fruitful harvest. A lifetime of love and . . .” I trail off as I search for the right words.
“. . .peaceful domesticity,” Franki finishes behind me, her voice muffled against my suit jacket.
I smile, nod, then heave a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Peaceful domesticity.”
The sommelier shifts uncomfortably. “With Chianti?” he asks doubtfully.
I nod, my expression deeply serious. “It’s very special. Embracing centuries of family tradition.”
My father coughs.
I avoid Dad’s eyes and stare down the sommelier, daring him to tell me a family of Scottish Americans can’t have a tradition of toasting with Chianti.
We don’t. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. But I dare him to say it.
He clears his throat.
Franki pokes me in the center of my back with a finger. I step forward, as directed.
“If I’d known, I’d have made sure to have enough on hand for everyone,” the man says.
I grip his shoulder with my free hand, then decide shoulder gripping is too intense for the moment and pat him, instead. “No need, friend. It’s but a small, private tradition.”
Franki makes a weird snuffly noise behind me and pokes me harder.
I move onward, steering us gently but firmly through the parted crowd. People avert their eyes. Someone coughs. Dad mutters, “Good for you, son,” under his breath.
When we reach the stairs, we switch positions with Franki in front. She looks up at me, mortified and laughing and entirely alive, her ears painted crimson. “‘It’s but a small, private tradition?’” she wheezes. “You turn medieval when you fib?”
I kiss her knuckles, unthwarted despite our setback. “Next time, we use the linen closet.”