Chapter 1
Fuck this dirt. My heels are sinking into it like every bad hookup I’ve ever regretted, and the sun’s pounding down like it’s got a personal vendetta against my melanin. Auntie’s will slapped this whole mess in my lap—vines all twisted up like the knots in her life she never untangled—and now I’m supposed to be the boss of weeds, debt, and whatever the hell “terroir” means. My shoulders are screaming from that three-hour drive up from Oakland, knots tighter than my braids after a wash day. Thighs chafing in these damn slacks I thought made me look professional. Professional for what? Playing farmer in heels? I yank at a stray vine just to feel something give, and shit—blisters already stinging my palms like a reminder that city hands weren’t built for this.
I wipe sweat from my forehead, tasting salt on my lips. The air’s thick, heavy with that earthy smell mixed with something sweeter, like overripe fruit rotting in the heat. Heatwave’s got everything baking—me included. My tank top’s sticking to my back, and I can feel my curls frizzing out under this bandana I grabbed last minute. Why’d I think I could just swap spreadsheets for soil? Like, girl, you barely keep a succulent alive on your desk. But here I am, queen of the rundown kingdom. The house looms up ahead, paint peeling like old scabs, and rows of vines stretching out like they’re judging me. Silent. Waiting for me to fuck it all up.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—another email from the office, probably wondering why I ghosted the meeting. I ignore it. Let them chase their tails in the boardroom. I’m chasing... what? Ghosts? Auntie’s ghost, maybe. She left me this because no one else wanted it. Or because she knew I’d fight for it. Stubborn runs in the family. My chest tightens at that thought, grief sneaking in like a side-eye I wasn’t ready for. I shake it off, focus on the burn in my legs as I trudge toward the barn or whatever this rickety building is.
That’s when I see him. Javi. Leaning against a truck that’s seen better days, arms crossed over a shirt stained with grease and god knows what else. Tattoos peeking out from his sleeves, dark ink swirling like vines themselves. His eyes hit me first—dark, shadowed, like he’s carrying his own set of unpaid bills. He doesn’t smile. Just nods, all business.
“You’re late,” he says, voice low with that accent that rolls like gravel under tires. Mexican-American, I remember from the resume. Born in the valleys, raised on the vines.
“Traffic,” I mutter, even though it’s a lie. I stopped for coffee because my nerves were jittering like I’d mainlined espresso already. My pulse picks up as I get closer, heat not just from the sun anymore. He’s taller than I expected, built solid from years of this shit. I can smell him—sweat, earth, a hint of something citrusy. Oranges? No, maybe the grapes.
He pushes off the truck, gestures at the fields. “Let’s walk it. See what you’re dealing with.”
We start the tour, and it’s awkward as hell. My heels keep catching, making me stumble like a drunk at last call. He doesn’t offer a hand, just watches with that skeptical stare. Arms still crossed half the time, like he’s guarding the place from me. We argue almost immediately—me pushing for some fancy irrigation tech I read about on the drive up, him shutting it down with “Tradition works. Water the roots, not the leaves. You drown ’em, they rot.”
“Rot? Like my savings if I don’t modernize this relic?” I snap back, frustration bubbling up hot in my chest. My face feels flushed, not just from the argument. His barbs hit low, accented and sharp, and damn if it doesn’t make my body react. Pulse racing, skin prickling. Like overripe grapes, he said? Shit, that’s me right now—swelling under the heat of his gaze.
He grunts, points out the migrant crew in the distance, hustling under the sun with clippers and buckets. “They know the land. You bring in drones and apps, you lose that. People get pushed out.”
I roll my eyes, but it stings. He’s right, maybe. My aunt hired him for a reason—guardian of the vines, wary as a stray dog. And me? City girl with directives, armor up from boardroom battles where they smile while stabbing you in the back. Failed relationships too—guys who ghosted after getting what they wanted. My guard’s thick, but his distrust flares like a match, lighting up my own mess. Frustration masks the grief clawing at me—Auntie gone too soon, leaving me this puzzle. I swallow it down, focus on the ache in my feet, the sweat trickling between my breasts.
By the time we hit the wine cellar, the sun’s dipping lower, but the heat’s still trapped in my bones. The door creaks open, and cool air rushes out—damp, musty, like earth after rain mixed with oak and old wine. Barrels line the walls, some leaking that faint scent that makes my head spin a little. Javi flips on a dim light, and we step in. Proximity hits—his arm brushes mine as he points out a crack in one barrel. Sparks. Literal tingles up my skin.
He pauses, rolls up his sleeve to show a scar snaking across his hand. “Harvester accident. Few years back. Boss cut corners, machine jammed. Lost a finger almost.”
His voice drops, mask slipping. Betrayal in his eyes—from that ex-wife, maybe, or industry assholes who exploit the labor. Migrant crews like his family, hustling in the shadows of these fancy estates.
I lean against a barrel, the wood cool against my back. “Urban burnout’s my scar. Oakland grind—climbing ladders that lead nowhere. Auntie’s death... just amplified the bullshit.”
Our eyes lock. Loneliness mirrors back at me. Physical pull tugs—his heat cutting through the cellar’s chill. Arms brush again, intentional this time? My breath catches, body humming like those modern machines he hates.
Then it happens. He reaches for a barrel to demonstrate something—leaky valve or whatever—and it tips. Wine spills, dark red soaking my slacks, his shirt. Cold shock hits my skin, then his hands are on me, steadying. “Shit, sorry—”
But I’m not pulling away. Collision—frantic, like we’ve been edging this all afternoon. His mouth on mine, rough at first, then softening. Tasting like salt and grapes. Hands worship—his calluses on my hips, grounding, pulling me close like roots claiming soil. I gasp into his kiss, needy, desperate. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him down.
We stumble back against the barrels, clothes peeling off in the dim light. Soaked fabric clings, then drops. His eyes rake over me—curves he worships like sacred ground. “Dios, Ali...” Voice low, tender. Soft dom vibes kicking in—he’s in control, but it’s all about me. Service top, making me feel every inch.
He drops to his knees, tattoos flexing as he parts my thighs. Teasing—lips brushing inner skin, breath hot. “Tell me what you need.”
“More,” I whine, desperate. Hands in his hair, guiding. He edges me—tongue flicking my clit light, circling my folds without diving in, denying the full press. Over and over, lapping at my entrance till my pussy’s dripping, clit throbbing swollen, building till I’m shaking, overstimulation threatening before release even hits. Sweet torture, romantic but nasty. Playful bites on my inner thighs, kinky holds—his grip firm on my hips, pinning me as I arch, fingers digging in to spread me wider, tongue thrusting inside now, fucking me slow and deep while his thumb rubs my clit in circles that have me gasping, hips bucking wild against his face.
I give back—pull him up, switch places. My mouth on him, receiving turned giving. Sucking slow at first, lips wrapping his cock tight, tongue swirling the head salty with pre-cum, then deep throating till I gag a little, eyes watering but pushing through. Edging him with pulls and pauses, hand stroking the base while I suck the tip, feeling him twitch in my mouth.
His groans echo off the barrels, hands gentle in my curls, not pulling, just holding. Needy whispers—“Ali, fuck, yes”—as I overstimulate, pushing past his edges, deep throating again till he’s thrusting shallow into my throat, my gag reflex firing but the intensity making me wetter, his cock pulsing hard against my tongue.
Bodies entwine again—him inside, slow thrusts building to frantic, his cock stretching my pussy full, hitting that spot deep with every slam. Sweat-slick, hearts pounding. Releasing city stress, rural resentments. Not just fucking—claiming. His hardness in my softness, roots in soil. Orgasms crash—mine first, drawn out with his fingers circling my clit, denying then giving till I’m trembling, pussy clenching around his thrusting cock in waves that milk him. His follows, tender collapse against me, cock pulsing as he fills me, hot spurts deep inside while I grind back, overstimming us both till we’re shuddering messes.
We dress in silence, awkward glances over barrel tops. Wine stains on the floor like evidence. Javi mutters, “This... complications.” Rubs his neck, scars visible in the light.
I feel exposed, raw—but alive. Pulse still thrumming. His scars? Strength, not flaws. Mine too—burnout lines on my soul. Our bond’s a fragile shoot, pushing through parched soil. I smirk, self-deprecating. “Yeah, well. Vines need water. Guess we just irrigated.”
He chuckles low, eyes softening. We step out into the cooling air, heatwave breaking. But the heat between us? Just starting.
