The Winemaker: New Found Love for Sex

By Rebecca Stone

"Her eyes closed, as did mine, as our lips met. This time her kiss lingered, and I parted my lips, welcoming her tongue. They touched tentatively, then with great passion as the kiss erupted into a frenzy. Animal passion was quickly overtaking any notion of civility. I lost sense of where I was. It seemed like she was everywhere, nipping my neck, nibbling on my earlobe, then returning to my mouth. I didn't want it to end, but it did when she took a long breath."

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Stone
• Release date: Dec 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005902902

Rebecca Stone

I love writing and reading erotica. I enjoy publishing my content online and get people's perspective on my writings. I hope my readers enjoy the content I put through. Happy reading!

Book preview

The Winemaker: New Found Love for Sex

By Rebecca Stone

Published by

Ecstasy Publications at Smashwords

[e-mail]

Copyright 2021 Ecstasy Publications

Distributed by Smashwords

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entire coincidental

Authors Note:

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are at least 18 years old or above. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Present Day -- Napa Valley, California

Twelve Hours Later

Present Day -- Napa Valley, California

Dark storm clouds were gathering to the west over the Mayacamas, a coastal range of mountains separating Sonoma and Napa Valleys. It was mid-March, and heavy rain was forecast to continue for the next week. There were some mudslides in the hills above us, and our irrigation pond was spilling over into a seasonal creek. The creek, which ran the length of our twenty planted acres, was already a swirling mass of muddy water that threatened to overflow its grassy banks and flood the vineyard.

Libby, our eight year old rescue border collie, seemed to be the only member of our family that was overjoyed at the prospect of more rain. She surveyed the perimeter of our fenced estate every morning, and during the rainy season would wade through the wet marshland, her immaculate black and white coat turning a dirt brown, with clumps of grass wedged between her toes. She usually slept in my parent's room, and was forbidden from jumping on the bed, but muddy paws on my mother's favorite quilt betrayed last night's visit. Libby was pacing in front of me, ears perked high, waiting for the command to follow me as I started my usual morning trek through the rows of dormant grapevines.

She sprang forward as I gave the familiar curl of my fingers signaling permission to follow. Even though she was technically Mom's dog, I trained her as a pup and her first loyalty was to me. She was instantly by my side in her heeling position, wagging her bushy tail as if it was a metronome marking time for our brisk pace. I loved Libby as a sister. It would have been a tough pick if I was forced to choose between Libby and my brother Chas.

Chas was named after my famous great uncle, the one that purchased Greenleaf Estates in the late 1960's with the winnings from a successful night at the poker tables. I was told by the family's elders that my brother had many of the attributes of his namesake, including his passion for money, fast women, and faster cars. At twenty-eight, he was one of the eligible bachelors in Napa Valley, a scion of our famous Napa Valley family, a family known for a large wine estate that consistently produced high scoring and critic pleasing cabernet sauvignon. He was the face of the future of our winery, and its multimillion dollar brand, and was often seen in his late model Ferrari with a rotating group of women that cycled through his busy social calendar.

I did give him credit for being the visionary behind the lower cost consumer version of our pricey estate cabernet, using purchased grapes from Paso Robles. The Paso cabernet production topped 200,000 cases annually, and was easily our top seller. It wasn't our glamour brand, but it drove half the profits of our family owned business.

I'm Chas's older sister, Jamie (my parents thought I was going to be a boy and picked out this name, and liked it so much they used it even though I turned out to be a girl). Where Chas craved the spotlight, I'd always craved having my fingers sunk deep into the dirt ... the Napa Valley dirt that produced our flagship wine. I've also wanted to carry the flag for the company, and made no secret of my feelings to lead. However, I was viewed as a longshot at best for the head position that my father had occupied for more than forty years. My father was already a legend in the valley, starting his winemaking in the 70's with pioneers such as Robert Mondavi, André Tchelistcheff (BV), Warren Winiarski (Stag's Leap) and Jim Barrett (Chateau Montelena). He was a larger than life figure, and had always been my role model as I carved my own way to the top of the wine profession.

Samuel was Dad's given name, the name of his great uncle, but he eschewed his first name in favor of his middle, David, so all of his good friends called him David, but his business acquaintances would often call him Sam. Mom called him Dave.

I was a farmer like Dad. I was happy being out in the vineyard at four a.m., in the dark and cold, under the glare of portable floodlights, helping the picking crew during the harvest, while my playboy brother was just rolling in from a night of partying at some new hot spot in Napa. I never shied away from hard work, starting at the bottom rung of the corporate ladder, a cellar rat washing barrels and hosing off sorting tables for sixteen hours a day. I worked my way up to Assistant Winemaker, with a staff of forty, and was responsible for both the production facility and the tasting rooms. Time was a precious commodity for me.

I had a reputation for demanding perfection, and it was a reputation well-earned after I took the lead in making our 100 point 2015 cabernet reserve. That perfect score put me in the Napa Valley winemaking elite. It's been hard living up to my own high standards. Late nights most of the time and no sleep at all during the harvest. But it was worth the effort, despite the cost to my personal life, or what was left of it.

My father retained the title of Chief Winemaker, but it was common knowledge his title was in name only, since I'd been in that captain's chair after Dad suffered a mild stroke about two years earlier. He'd pretty much recovered, but for a slight slurring of his speech and bouts of momentary muscle weakness. Dad tried to be with me as much as he was able, but he usually started to tire after about four hours of work, so I would take him back to the house in one of our ATV's so he could take a nap after lunch. Sometimes he would call me to retrieve him after his afternoon siesta and sometimes he was content to stay with Mom, who would happily boss him around her two acre rose garden.

Mom was actively trying to convince him to retire. She was worried about his health, and also worried that they'd miss their best years together, with him whiling away the hours in the vineyard or the production facility instead of with her. Wine ran in his