The Vineyard Escape

Candice's P.O.V  

3:17 a.m.

I received the message in a one line text on my phone, illuminated in the darkness:

Put on something you do not mind getting messed up.  

I am beyond the east gate five.

My heart beat was thudding in my ribs. I didn't think. I just moved.

Jeans, tight black tank, no bra, hair scrangled into a tangy mass. I slipped out of the house, barefooted down the steps of the servants past the snoring sentinel of the night and into the warm night. Under the cypress-trees a matte-black Ducati lay as a hunter. Mantovani supported himself on it, holding his helmet, and his eyes were sparkling.

He didn't speak. Gave me the spare helmet and a jacket belonging to him that smelled like him. I pulled it on. It swallowed me.

The snarling of the bike to life was the second circling of his waist by my arms. We went down the gravel drive, by the slumbering villa, by the guard-men, who did not even think (they knew whose son he was, even though I did not know yet). Wind tore my breath away. His back was fire-hot on my palms; I found all the movements of his body between my thighs to be obscene and perfect.

Another twenty minutes of winding roads brought him to the verge of the private vineyard of Conti where he killed the engine. Silver lines of vines under the moon made a bottomless dark sea.

He grabbed my hand and dragged me through the vines till the villa lights were a dull glow behind the hill. Then he paused and turned about and looked at me as though I were the only actual object in the world.

Mantovani's P.O.V

I intended to of course hold my hands together till we reached the old stone casetta at the farther end of the property.  

Four seconds was the duration of that plan.

The second we were lost to view beneath the vines I grabbed her and pressed her against the nearest post, mouth on mouth, swallowing the little gasp that she uttered. She had the taste of toothpaste and wantonness. Her legs twisted round my hips as she instinctively did; the heat between her thighs tore holes through denim.

I tore the kiss away just to snatch my lips down her throat, the teeth gnashing the wild flutter of her pulse.  

“Don’t tell me to stop,” I said, again

She replied by jerking open my shirt, buttons flying. Her nails scratched my chest and I had bruises on my chest which I would proudly show as trophies.

I fell down on my knees in the mud and unbuttoned her jeans and undid them just far enough. Her stomach had been painted silver by Moonlight. I leaned my mouth against the smooth flesh right over her panties and sensed her shaking.

"Hold the post," I ordered.

She did, and her fingers cuddled round coarse wood. I took her leg on my shoulder, and licked her between the black lace till the cloth got wet and she was trembling so much the vine leaves were rattling.

The moment I managed to move the lace aside, and slipped two fingers deep into her, she broke into a broken cry that resounded in the empty rows. I held my mouth on her, and pulled it out until her knees gave way and I was forced to hold her.

She was continuing to throb along my fingers when I rose and kissed her, and allowed her to see how crazy my nerves made me.

Candice's P.O.V

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Only feel.

He turned me about, and laid my chest against the post, and hands were lifted and one hand was under me to cup my breasts with the tank. My nipples were circled by his thumbs until I started whimpering. I heard his belt, his rasp of a zipper behind me. Then the hard, hot length of him slipped between my thighs, but not inside, excluding, feeling its way through wetness.

"Look at me," he growled.

I turned my head. His eyes were black fire.

“I am going to put you down on my bed tomorrow, you will beg till your voice gives out, and fuck you slow, till you know no other name than mine. This evening I only want to feel you ‘round my cock once before I lose my mind about it.”

Then he made one long, greasy movement.

We both groaned. He was huge, raking me, stuffing me, ideal. For sometime we remained in the position, him holding his hilt, my back bent, the night at rest.

Then he started to move.

Slow, at first, almost tender, each stroke rubbing along each sensitive spot within me. His hand came round to squeeze my clit in hard cruel circles. I had the other hand that was locked to my hair and just tugged it hard enough to make my scalp sing.

Second orgasm was like a wave, it was rolling, endless. I gripped him so fiercely his beat became stuttering; he cursed in Italian, buried deep rough and spurting thick within me with my name on his lips like a prayer and a curse.

There we lingered, anyhow, gasping, sweat drying, crickets beginning to sing again.

He finally removed himself, arranged my trousers, turned me and kissed me tenderly and lovingly, which was by no means resembling the tempest we had just been through.

I meant it, he said against my mouth. "Tomorrow night. My bed. All night."

I nodded, boneless.

He zipped up, gave me the helmet and we rode on back through the vines with his come between my thighs and my heart beating his name.

I was not yet aware that he was an heir to an empire on blood and silence.

I just knew that I was already addicted to the danger that I could smell on his skin.