Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“Do you like to take cruises?” she asked. “I love them.”

“I’ve never done that,” he said. “But I might try it out with an experienced guide.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile.

The Shenandoah Valley, Virginia

Saturday, September 20, 11:10 a.m.

The first winery was a two-story wooden structure that looked like a lodge, atop a hill covered with vineyards. They went inside to the counter for a tasting. Agreeing on the merits of a Cab-Merlot blend, he bought a couple of glasses plus some French bread, cheese, and cold cuts, and they went outside to picnic on the courtyard patio.

The breeze was chilly. Gray clouds that threatened rain drifted over the distant Blue Ridge chain. Near their little table, bees darted around a trellis interwoven with flowering vines, and water tumbled over the lips of a fountain. They ate, drank, and struggled to keep straight faces at each other’s jokes.

They visited another winery during the following hour and, after more sampling, bought several bottles. This one had a second-floor balcony overlooking a large willow and a duck pond. They took glasses of Syrah out there and sipped as dark clouds rolled in.

“Looks like the weather isn’t going to cooperate,” he said. “Perhaps we should head to the inn for an early dinner.”

A beat passed. “That’s probably a good idea.”

They drove down winding country roads, past pastures and small cattle herds, outrunning the rain until they reached the village. He pulled into a sprawling Colonial-style complex. The main inn and restaurant were surrounded by several charming cottages and outbuildings.

He took her hand as she emerged from the car. Held it as they headed up the wide steps and into the lobby. She veered off to explore the ornate decor while he made arrangements at the front desk.

He approached behind her as she examined an antique curio cabinet. Placed a hand on her shoulder. “I made early dinner reservations. So that we can watch the rain while it’s still light outside.”

“That’s good.” She didn’t look at him.

“We have about an hour. Perhaps you’d like to get ready.”

“All right.”

Her shyness both amused and touched him. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back to the car. He drove the short distance to a small outbuilding. The two-story cottage was painted deep red with cheerful yellow shutters and was dominated by a broad field-stone chimney. The entrance was through a small outdoor dining pavilion adorned with wicker furniture and hanging plants.

The first scattered drops of rain greeted them as he helped her from the car. He held out the room key, smiling. “Why don’t you go on in and explore, while I bring our things.”

“Okay.”

She went ahead. He gathered up their bags and the wine they’d bought. When he entered, she was standing in the middle of the living room, her back to him, facing the gray stone fireplace. The staff had already prepared a cheerful fire for their arrival.

He set down the items, keeping his distance. She didn’t face him.

“I know, Annie. I’m a little scared too.”

“I’m more than a little scared.”

“That’s all right. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready. I’ll use the bathroom down here.”

She turned to him. She looked small and vulnerable. “It’s so beautiful, Dylan. It’s perfect.”

“It is now that we’re here.”

*

The inn’s five-star restaurant was renowned for its spectacular cuisine and service. All tables were filled for the Saturday night, and Hunter felt fortunate to have reserved an isolated one for two. Carved oak wainscoting embraced their corner table; a fringed silk shade muted the overhead lamp; thick, coffee-colored drapery, drawn back with golden rope ties, highlighted the window beside them. Outside, the lawn rolled away to a distant grove of trees almost hidden in the misting rain.

Her head was turned toward the window, taking in the magical scenery. She wore a sleeveless red taffeta dress, cut low, slit to mid-thigh. A black velvet sash fell at an angle across her narrow waist; she had matched it with teardrop earrings of black tourmaline and a black velvet choker.

They feasted on lamb carpaccio, cold pear soup, filet of halibut, and braised veal. The wine pairings were superb, and by the second glass, she began to relax. Laughing and gazing into each other’s eyes, they fed each other morsels from their plates and talked about things that he knew he would never later recall. By the time the dessert sampler arrived, he had slid his chair around the table to be next to hers.

He treated her to a spoonful of rum-flavored creme brulee; it left a small dab on her lower lip.

“Miss, I’m afraid you’ve got some dessert on that mouth,” he said, leaning close.

“Do I, now.” She greeted his lips with hers.

*

They walked hand in hand under a broad hotel umbrella to their cottage. His hand shook a little as he inserted the key in the lock.

Then they were inside. He kept his eyes on her as his hand sought the switch to turn out the lights.

The burning coals in the fireplace were the only illumination. They had made the room hot. She stood unmoving, her back to him, a curving silhouette against the glowing rectangle.

He reached around from behind her and undid the clasp at her throat that held her short fur jacket. It slid to the floor; he left his palm moving over her breasts. Intoxicated by her scent, he leaned down and his lips traced the curve of her bare shoulder to the back of her neck with light kisses. She drew in a sharp breath and he felt her shiver. Still behind her, he pulled her head around and met her open mouth.

Then she was crushed against him, her breasts squeezed to his chest, her hands pushing the jacket of his tux from his shoulders. He let it fall. One hand under her, his other tight around her back, he lifted her against his body. In response, she hooked a leg around him. Somehow he carried her that way up the stairs, to the waiting canopy bed.

*

Annie did not know how many times they made love that night. It was beyond her experience, beyond even her fantasies. She could not believe his insatiability, or her own. It had begun as desire, runaway desire. But it descended into ruthless need-then into sheer savagery, into a dark place where pain and pleasure lost any distinction.

A place where there no longer was any distinction between the two of them.

Somewhere in the night, hours later, as they once again lay gasping and trembling, as she stroked the head of thick tangled hair lying heavily on her breasts, she knew that their passion at last was spent. She was beyond exhaustion; she was in physical pain from their excesses. She felt his warm breath against her belly, his big hand resting on her thigh. His breath slowed. She smiled. He was finally falling asleep.

Then he stirred. Raised his head, looked at her. In the dying light of the fire, his eyes seemed to be blazing coals, too.

He slid up her body, resting his face on the pillow next to hers. His hands moved up and down her skin, owning her. She shivered under his touch.

“My God, Dylan, I can’t. Not again.” She moved his hand away. “No!”

He grabbed the back of her hair. Pressed his lips into light contact with hers. His eyes, so close, bore into hers.

“You listen to me, Annie Woods. The one word that’s forbidden when we’re in bed is ‘no.’”

She felt the power in his arms, in the thighs against hers. Impossibly, she found herself stirring once again.

“Tell me something, Annie Woods,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “Is there anything you’ve ever imagined doing in bed with a man, that you’ve never gotten around to doing?”