22. Emma
Twenty Two
Emma
R idge flips us, and suddenly I’m sprawled on the roof, the rough shingles a stark contrast to his smooth, sun-warmed skin. His lips find my neck, and the vibrations of his contented hums travel through my spine, settling like molten honey in my lower belly. A soft whimper escapes me as his hands grasp my waist, pulling me into him with a force that belies his gentle touch.
“Ridge…” His name falls from my lips like a prayer, only to be swallowed by his kiss. His hands move leisurely over my body, as if he’s mapping uncharted territory, committing every curve and plane to memory. My fingers tangle in his hair, seeking an anchor in this sea of need that threatens to drown me.
His hips grind against mine, his hardness pressing right where I crave it most. There are too many layers between us—denim, cotton, the very air itself seems an obstacle. I part my lips to voice this frustration, but what comes out instead is a loud moan as his fingers find my center.
He moves at a torturously slow pace, and I try to buck my hips, chasing that elusive friction. But he has me pinned down, his body a delicious cage. “I told you, Little Flower,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, “I’ll drive you crazy until you’re begging me to let you come.”
When he enters my heat with one long finger, I wither like a vine in drought, desperate for his touch. “Ridge, please,” I beg, almost shaking with need.
“That’s it,” he encourages between kisses that brand my neck and collarbone. “Good girl.”
Two simple words, and my body reacts as if he’s spoken an ancient spell. My inner walls flutter, and I teeter on the edge of bliss, but he keeps me there, suspended in this exquisite torture.
“You like that?” His voice is deeper, richer, like the earth after rain. “You like being my good girl?” Another flutter around his teasing finger, and I nod frantically, beyond words. “What does my good girl want?”
“You, Ridge.” The confession tumbles out, raw and unfiltered.
He pauses, and I whine at the loss. “Say it again. What do you want, baby?”
Oh God. “You, Ridge. You.”
Something shifts in him, like a dam breaking. His leisurely pace turns frantic; he’s everywhere at once, and I’m a mess of sensation. As he adds another finger, the knot in my stomach tightens. I keep climbing higher, like a vine reaching for sunlight, until the pleasure crashes through me in waves.
While I’m still floating in my haze, he undoes his belt. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch him pull himself out. “Fuck, Lil Flower, I…” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t have a condom.”
“I’m on the pill, Ridge. Please, I want you to…” I trail off into a moan as his grip on my waist tightens. He looks at me, his gaze burning with sincerity. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” One word, and he’s back to kissing me, his tip nudging my entrance.
“Fuck,” he mumbles as he enters me in one smooth thrust. We both groan, pausing to savor this moment—this perfect alignment, like two vines intertwining. Then he starts to move.
It’s a dance of tangled limbs and fervent kisses, hard thrusts, and soft words. Our bodies move in sync, like we’ve been tending this vineyard together for years, not hours. I feel myself nearing the edge again, and this time, without warning, the waves crash over me—a harvest of pleasure, ripe and overwhelming.
Just as I come down, he pulls out, spilling onto my stomach. After a moment, he’s back, kissing me softly, grinding against me. My mind is in the clouds, lost in the vineyard’s starlit expanse, when suddenly I jolt downward. There’s a loud crack, and the wooden plank beneath me gives way. I grab Ridge instinctively, ensuring I don’t fall through.
“Shit… Shit… Shit,” Ridge mumbles, holding me away from the crack by my waist. We stare at each other—one second, two—before laughter bubbles up, uncontrollable and free. I bury my face in his chest, feeling the vibrations of his mirth as he maneuvers us to an uncracked plank, settling me in his lap.
“Well, that was awesome and adventurous,” he chuckles, and I pull him closer by his shirt collar, kissing him deeply.
Against his lips, I whisper, “It was perfect.” And it was—flawed, unexpected, a little dangerous, but perfect. Like a wine that’s bold and complex, with notes of passion and hints of risk, culminating in a finish that lingers long after the last sip.
Completely undeterred by the roof’s betrayal, Ridge lays down, bringing me on top of him. I snuggle into his warmth, his body a stark contrast to the crisp night air that nips at my skin. My sundress, chosen for its charm rather than practicality, does little to shield me from the cold. But with Ridge beneath me, I’m enveloped in a warmth that rivals a summer afternoon in the vineyard—all sun-baked earth and ripening grapes.
He kisses the top of my head as I trace lazy circles on his pecs, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath my fingertips. It’s a rhythm that matches the quiet hum of the vineyard at night, a soothing cadence that speaks of home.
“By the way,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through my body, “if it wasn’t clear by me breaking my roof to fuck you…” He captures my hand in his, pressing it over his heart. “I like you too, Little Flower. All too much.”
I smile, nuzzling closer. His scent—a heady mix of leather, wood, and something uniquely Ridge—envelops me like a favorite blanket. He reaches for his phone, taps a few times, and suddenly the night air is filled with a melody that’s as familiar to me as my own name.
“Cardigan” by Taylor Swift. The song wraps around us, its nostalgic notes perfectly mirroring this moment—unexpected, tender, a bit worn around the edges but all the more precious for it.
“I love that song!” I exclaim, and his smile is like watching the first buds break in spring—a quiet joy, full of promise.
“I know.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a single candy. “Here.”
My heart flutters in recognition. “That’s Alpenliebe!” It’s not just any candy; it’s the one I love. “Again, baby, I know.” The endearment, so casually spoken, sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I kiss the corner of his lips, tasting the lingering sweetness of our earlier passion, then take the candy. But instead of popping it into my mouth, I pause, bringing it to his lips.
“Bite it,” I instruct.
His brow furrows. “What? That’s candy, baby, not chocolate.”
“I know.” A smirk plays on my lips. “Bite hard.”
He does, his trust in me evident. The candy breaks into three uneven pieces—two falling into my palm, one captured between his teeth. I pop the remaining two into my mouth, the burst of sweetness a delightful contrast to the roof’s rough texture beneath me.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
He leans in, sucking my lower lip between his. “Now it’s good.” I giggle, and his smile—god, that smile could make me fall in love.
“So, Taylor Swift?” I ask, curious about this unexpected layer of the man beneath me.
He shrugs, a movement I feel more than see. “Once you listen to her, you get hooked. And I have two little girls screaming her songs almost all day.”
“True. But who’s your favourite?”
“Well, I loved Boston and Nirvana. I have all their vinyl CDs.” His eyes light up, like a vintner discussing a prized vintage. “I used to have a vinyl record player, but it broke.”
“Hmm, I love ‘More Than a Feeling.’ Do you have that on vinyl?” The thought of Ridge, all rugged edges and quiet strength, listening to Boston’s soaring melodies… it fits, in a wonderfully incongruous way.
“I do.” His surprise is palpable. “You know Boston?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Well, you know Taylor Swift, old man. I can know Boston.” The tease rolls off my tongue, sweet and sharp like the first taste of our Sauvignon Blanc.
“Old man, huh?” His smirk is predatory, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “I’d go for round two right now. Sure you can keep up with this old man?” In a move that belies his words, he flips us again, and I laugh as he trails kisses down my neck.
But then he pauses, his breath hot against my skin. “But not here. Let’s go.”
We’re a tangle of limbs in his bedroom, our bodies fitting together like two vines that have grown intertwined, impossible to separate without causing harm. The sheets, a rich burgundy that reminds me of our boldest Cabernet, are twisted around us, bearing silent witness to the night’s passionate revelations.
My body hums with a deep, satisfying ache—a physical echo of the five climaxes Ridge coaxed from me. Each orgasm was distinct, like vintages from consecutive years; same vines, same soil, but each bearing the unique signature of its season. The first two, on his roof, was a wild, untamed burst, like our inaugural harvest’s audacious Syrah. The third and fourth, here in his bed, were richer, more layered—a well-structured Merlot followed by an opulent Cabernet Franc. And the fifth… oh, the fifth was pure luxury, a late-harvest dessert wine that left me honeyed and sun-drunk.
Now, in this criminal space between night and day, we talk. Our voices are low, and intimate, as if speaking any louder might shatter this cocoon we’ve spun.
“I never thought I’d see so many Vinyls in one place,” I confess, tracing the line of his collarbone. As I listen to a country tune playing in one ear and look at the impressively huge Vinyl Collection in Ridge’s bedroom.
Ridge chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine. “I Used to have a pretty neat Vinyl Player too.”
“Oh, Thats cool. What happened to it .”
His fingers dance along my spine, each touching a spark that reignites embers I thought had cooled. “Hmm. Lets see Lily and Cody were playing catch and my Record Player caught their ball.”
I laugh, as I imagine younger versions of Lily and Cody running around in the house breaking stuff “That’s very cute..” Impulsively, I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tasting the lingering sweetness of the Alpenliebe candy.
We drift from topic to topic, like bees moving between blossoms—gathering nectar here, pollinating there, each interaction enriching both parties. He tells me about his past and his brother James and his Parents. I share my vision for the vineyard, my friends from college, and the books I read.
* * *
“Tell me again, how did the roof break?” Ethan’s voice floats into the kitchen, a blend of exasperation and barely concealed amusement.
My body temperature spikes, as if I’ve just stepped out of our cool wine cave into August’s unforgiving sun. I’m in the kitchen with Avery and Lily, ostensibly teaching them how to make pancakes, but in reality, I’m using their sweet, flour-dusted presence as a shield. Hiding behind children—a new low, Emma.
“I was sitting there like always, and it just gave away,” Ridge’s deep baritone replies as they both enter. The nonchalance in his tone is as transparent as our Riesling.
He shrugs, then tips his cowboy hat lower, a move that would look casual to anyone else. But not to me. That hat tilt? its to hide the blush that is spreading through him.
Damn, he’s cute. No that’s a wrong word. Because Ridge McCords isn’t just cute—that’s a word for puppies and children’s art projects. No, Ridge is… magnificent. In this mundane kitchen setting, amidst the homely scents of butter and vanilla, he stands out like a glass of our bold Tempranillo at a table set for white wine.
My eyes trace the strong lines of his jaw, the kind that looks like it was carved by the same rugged forces that shaped his ranch’s terrain. His green eyes, usually as calm and deep as the ponds on his property, now hold a storm—a tempest of emotions I’m only beginning to understand. Is it embarrassment from Ethan’s questioning? Residual tension from our rooftop rendezvous? Or something else entirely, something that mirrors the wild fluttering in my own chest?
My gaze drifts lower, over the tight lines of his flannel—a garment that’s less clothing and more a second skin, outlining every ridge and valley of his torso. Beneath it, a gray Henley clings to his frame, its neckline offering a teasing glimpse of tanned skin and dark hair. He’s a study in textures: the ruggedness of flannel, the softness of well-worn cotton, the hint of skin that promises both strength and tenderness.
The ensemble is a concession to the dropping temperatures. Soon, our vineyard will be blanketed in snow, each vine a frozen sculpture. I can’t wait for it to start snowing, to see Ridge in this very outfit, perhaps with the addition of a weathered leather jacket. The image makes my breath catch—he’d look like a romance novel cover, all smoldering looks against a backdrop of crystalline beauty.
As he passes by me to fully enter the kitchen, his scent envelops me like a favored old sweater. It’s a bouquet that’s become as familiar as our estate’s terroir: dark sawdust from his workshop, earthy notes that speak of long days in the field, and underneath, a musky sweetness reminiscent of hay warmed by the afternoon sun. In an instant, I’m transported to our last wine tasting—his large hand cradling the delicate glass, his expression thoughtful as he savoured each sip.
Focus slips away from me like water through cupped hands. All I can register is his proximity, the slight sway of his body that unconsciously mirrors mine, as if we’re two vines growing inexorably toward each other.
“Do you mind looking after Lily and Avery for a couple of hours?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that resonates in my very core. “I have to go pick up Cody from his friend’s place and do some grocery shopping?”
“Of course,”