I laughed softly. "A good investment, it seems." I studied him for a moment. "Your father would be proud of you, Grayson."
Very suddenly, an expression came over his face that made him look like a little boy—shy and vulnerable. He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I think he would have been," he said softly, finally smiling back proudly. "Do you want to see where the barrels are stored for aging?"
I smiled and nodded realizing how very much he was still affected by his father's judgment of him. I understood it more than most, but for some reason, it made me incredibly sad. Grayson took my hand and led me to a door at the back of the room. The air was suddenly cooler and there was barely any light. Grayson took my hand and I followed him down a long, cement hallway of sorts. The hallway opened up and there were rows upon piled rows of barrels. The air smelled of pungent wood. I inhaled, drawing the damp earthy air into my lungs.
"These are burgundy barrels, made with burgundy wood from France," he explained.
"Hmm," I hummed. "How long do you age the wine?"
"This wine has been aging five years. It's almost ready to be bottled. Which, again, thanks to the Dallaire investment, can now happen." So it was put in barrels right after his father became ill. One of the last things accomplished here at Hawthorn Vineyard. Until now.
"You bottle it here?"
"We will," he said, "once my new bottling machine arrives."
"I never knew so much went into the process," I mused, looking around at the barrels.
"I've just shown you how the fruit is processed. Even more goes into the winemaking itself. I'll show you that someday, too." Someday . . . and yet, my days here were numbered. Before I could dwell on that, I realized Grayson had moved closer to me. I sucked in a breath, noting the look of intensity on his face. Even in the dim light, I could see the fire in his eyes. I took a step back and pressed my body into the cement wall behind me. His hands came up on either side of my face and he leaned toward me. The air in this room was so cool, and his lips against mine felt especially warm and so very soft.
"You're so warm," he murmured, obviously having had the same thought. Leaning back in, he ran his tongue along the seam of my lips, and with a groan, I opened for him. He brought his hands up to my face, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, holding him so I didn't slide down the wall. Why did his kiss enflame me the way it did, and yet relax every muscle in my body at the same time? His kiss was filled with confidence, his body so very warm and solid as it pressed into mine. He ran his tongue everywhere: along the sensitive ridge at the roof of my mouth, the inside of my cheeks, along my teeth, and then back to tangle with my tongue as if seeking to know every part of my mouth. I tried to hold back the moan that came up my throat, but it was a wasted effort. Pressing into him, I moaned yet again, my heart beating insistently between my legs, my sensitive nipples rubbing deliciously against his hard chest.
I had kissed men before—okay some of them more boys than men—but suddenly I realized that no, no, I had never been kissed. Not if this was the way a kiss made you feel. I had never, ever been kissed like this.
"You," Grayson said as he broke from my lips, "are so delicious. I can't get enough of you." And then, thank the Lord, he leaned back in and kissed me again, his tongue slipping into my mouth as I ran my hands down his lean, muscled back. He was so beautifully built, so broad and tall, so solid. A thrill shot through me at the intriguing feel of the unfamiliar contours of his masculine body. I wanted to know every part of him, every dip and hard plane. I could feel the hard press of his erection at my belly and it sent a jolt of arousal through my blood.