Between the Vines

"Would you like to take some photos?" he asks, offering me his phone.

He unlocks the screen, enables the camera, and hands the device to me. I kneel up and position the camera to take the first photo. He slips behind me and gently rests his hands on my hips. I can feel the warmth of his breath against the side of my face. He's watching intently as I take the pictures. I hand the camera over my shoulder to him.

"I know why you brought me out here," he whispers into my ear.

I freeze. Oh no? Did he see? Has he known all along?

"You wanted me all to yourself. You wanted to bring me out here, so we'd be all alone together."

He turns his head a little and I feel his lips brush the side of my neck. That feels so amazing!

I feel him pull at my hips and obediently I turn to face him. The ground beneath my knees is hard, but I really don't care. Even in the cold moonlight he looks stunningly handsome. I just want to kiss him.

He reaches up and tenderly strokes my cheek. Then the magical moment of our first kiss.

His lips are soft and gentle. He teases my mouth open and caresses my tongue with his. My body is electrified, every part of me craves his touch. He gathers me into his arms and pulls me against him. He's so big, so strong, so powerful -- he makes me feel so small. It's wonderful. I've never felt like this before.

And now he is leaning me backwards, setting me onto the dirt beneath. I'm lying down and he's moving over me, pressing his lips more firmly against me as his passion grows. This is getting uncomfortable, there's a big rock behind my head and something sharp is digging into my hip. What if I slip and cut myself?

I'm beginning to panic. I can't do this, not here. He's pushing harder and his hand is sliding up my leg. Why is he doing this? This isn't the Pierre I thought I knew.

His kisses are getting more aggressive and he's putting more weight on me. I never imagined he'd be this forceful. His face is in shadow. I can't see his eyes any more. Surely he knows I'm not comfortable?

And now his fingers are under my skirt. They're at the top of my thigh. He's about to touch my panties.

I summon all my strength and shove him away with a cry.

"I'm sorry, I can't. Not that. Not here. I'm sorry. Not for my first time. I've led you on. I've confused you. It's all my fault."

I burst into tears and run from him as fast as I can.

What on earth have I done?

--

Pierre's POV

--

I've been rejected before - of course I have. It's happened a lot at Oxford, especially once the supply of desperate virgins ran dry. But there it's just water off a duck's back. Usually I'd roll my eyes, mutter something under my breath about 'fickle bitches' and move onto more pliant pussy. But this is different - different in ways I can't explain.

I stand watching Chloe's fleeing figure until she finally disappears from view, my feet still rooted to the spot. What's wrong with me? I haven't had sex in over two months - is that it? Have I just lost my touch or was I never gonna get her anyway? Or is she somehow more special than the rest?

My phone buzzes twice. It's two messages from Will.

"ALL CLEAR."

"ENJOY YOUR NIGHT!!!"

I fucking hate him.

----

Chloe's POV

----

I cried myself to sleep last night. I've screwed everything. It's all my fault. I panicked and dragged him into the vineyard. And it was really nice for him to show me the view over San Tropez. And I just got spooked when he tried to kiss me. I thought he put his hand up my skirt, but I probably just imagined it. And even if he did, I'm sure it was an accident. It was dark. I'm sure he didn't mean it.

And now he probably thinks I some silly little girl, who led him on just to turn him down. He's probably angry with me. I sent all the right signals, then ran off when he tried to act on them. He'll think I'm a right bitch.

So what am I going to do now? I don't want to see him again - I'm too embarrassed. I'll hide in my room for the rest of the holiday. Tell Emma I've got permanent sunstroke or something. She won't be bothered - she'll got Will. Maybe I'll invent a crisis at home and get on the first plane back.

There's a soft knock on the door.

"Go away Emma," I call. "I want to be on my own."

"It's Pierre," comes the reply. "I brought you some breakfast. Can we talk?"

Is that really him? My heart leaps for joy. Hurriedly I throw on yesterday's clothes and cautiously open the door.

Pierre is standing there, looking as fresh and handsome as always, holding a tray of coffee and croissants.

"Are you OK?" he asks softly.

He can see I've been crying.

"I'm really sorry about last night," he says gently.

"No, it's my fault," I say. "I was just confused and tired and I sent all the wrong signals and I... and I..."

My voice trails away.

"Can I put this down?" he asks.

I stand aside and let him into the room. He puts the tray down on the dressing table and turns to me.

"It's my fault as well," he says softly. "I shouldn't have pushed you the way I did, that wasn't right."

I look into his deep chestnut eyes and I feel even more guilty. He shouldn't be the one apologising.

"Can we be friends?" he asks sincerely.

I nod, tongue-tied.

"Hug?"

I nod again.

Pierre steps towards me and puts his big arms around me. I love the way he makes me feel so small. I could have had it all, but I've thrown my chance away.

"I need to get back to the kitchen," he says as he breaks the embrace and steps away.

"You can't stay for a croissant?"

Pierre shakes his head.

"No sorry, we have a group of thirty coming up from St Tropez. They're having a vineyard tour and lunch. I've got to get back - it's too busy down there."

"W-w-what time is it now?" I ask, alarmed.

"Just after ten."

"After ten?!" I'm so embarrassed.

"That's OK, you're on holiday!" he replies with a smile. "You're allowed to sleep late."

He walks towards the door.

"Can I help you?" I ask, almost desperate to stop him leaving. "Please? I don't mind if it's just washing salad and chopping vegetables. I'm not interested in the art and there's not much else for me to do. Please? I'll just get bored if I'm on my own."

Pierre turns and looks back at me.

"Yes, OK," he says slowly. "I'd like that very much."

--

The coffee is piping hot and there's no way I can even begin to drink it yet. I take the cup back to the bed and put it down on the night stand.

I pick up my phone. There's a message from my Dad, checking in to see how I am. I type out an enthusiastic reply. That should keep him quiet. I open my photo album to see if I can find a picture to send him.

The first couple aren't particularly inspiring, just general views of the vineyard. I flick my thumb across the screen and the next one slides into view.

I gasp. It's one of the ones I took of Pierre yesterday morning by the pool - you know, one of the ones of him under the shower.

He's standing side-on to me, fingers raking through his hair as the water cascades over his shoulders. The morning sun picks out every muscle on his arms and every ridge on his chest. I shake my head in despair. He's beautiful.

But my eyes are drawn to one thing. Guilty I spread my finger and thumb across the screen, zooming in on those tight black speedos. This definitely isn't a photo I'd send to Dad.

I stare, mesmerised at the screen. That bulge is pretty big, silhouetted as a perfect curve, more than enough for me to know that Pierre is blessed indeed. But I shouldn't be looking at this, especially after last night.

But he's never gonna know. So what's the harm? I can just pretend.

There's a dull ache between my legs and the wetness is beginning to build. If Pierre were to come through the door right now, I swear I'd rip every scrap of clothing from his body. I slide a hand downwards and slip my finger between my folds. I'm dripping wet - and all for one guy.

With my left hand I scroll to the next photo, juggling the phone awkwardly as I hold the screen. This one's even better, full frontal this time, head turned slightly away from me, looking across the pool.

There's a little bullet vibrator in my suitcase - the one I bought on my 18th birthday. It was my present to myself, but I've hardly used it. At home, I'm always scared that someone will hear it buzzing. But right now there's no one around.

I start to make little circles across my mons, torn with indecision. Do I bring myself off now, when it feels so good? Or should I get the vibrator from my suitcase and make it even better? My bag's on the other side of the room - I can see it from here. Aaarrrgghhh - what should I do?

I put the phone down and leap from the bed, crossing the floor in a few hurried steps. Awkwardly, I squat down in front of my case, trying to keep my balance as I unzip it. My hand closes around the little velvet pouch and I take it back to the bed.

Quickly I strip off my clothes and lie back down. I pull a single sheet over me, just in case. Next, I extract the vibrator from its pouch. It's one of those ones that looks like it might be a lipstick. I don't think any of my brothers would go prying in my room, but I chose one like this, just in case.

I pick up my phone again and wake the screen. There's the picture of Pierre, standing beside the pool in full demi-god mode. What if I could go back in time, to that frozen moment, be able to do anything I wanted to him? Where would I start?

I press the bullet against my mons and turn it to the lowest setting. There's a gentle warmth spreading from the contact. My heart rate steps up a notch.

I close my eyes and slide the vibrator down a little further towards my clit. I picture Pierre, standing at the end of my bed, dressed only in his tight black speedos.

"Do you like what you see?" he asks seductively.

I nod back. I very much like what I see, what I'm imagining.

He's crawling forwards now onto the bed, moving towards me, moving above me. I moisten my lips with my tongue, pretending he's kissing me, feeling the weight of his chest on my breasts, spreading my legs so he can slip between them.

My breath is becoming ragged as I slip the bullet lower, teasing my lips with the tip. He's grinding against me now, I can feel his erection sliding across my folds.

"Do you like that?" he's asking huskily. "Can you feel how hard I am?"

I can hear myself beginning to moan. Short little yelps escape my lips as the pleasure fizzes inside me. It's not gonna take much to tip me over. I press more firmly against my lips. I've never pushed it inside me. Should I? Dare I?

Above the buzz of the bullet and the thumping of my heart, I hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.

In panic I sit bolt upright, throwing my arms out to pull the sheet more tightly over me and losing my grip on the vibrator. In horror I watch it slide across the tiled floor towards the doorway. Buzzing like an angry wasp, it comes to rest at Emma's feet.

"Not interrupting am I?" she smiles, bending down and to pick it up. "Honestly girl - the real thing's much better," she laughs.

I give a yelp and scarper into the bathroom, half tripping over the sheet in my haste to hide my embarrassment. I splash some water over my face and chest. I wrap a towel around myself and sheepishly re-enter the bedroom.

"You might want to wash that before you use it again," she says, nodding towards the vibrator.

Oh no, she's picked my phone!

If I wasn't already red with embarrassment, I certainly am now.

She types my code in and unlocks the screen. She throws her head back and laughs, then turns the device round to show me.

It's the photo of Pierre by the pool under the shower.

"Seriously girl. You gotta get that v-card torn up."

--

"So what can I do?" I ask as I enter the kitchen.

Pierre has his back to me. He's washing his hands in the sink.

"Oh Hhi!" he says smiling over his shoulder. "A lot of things are cooking, but we need to make a start on the desserts. Can you make a chocolate sauce?"

"Yes, of course. Just show me where everything is and I'll get on with it."

He dries his hands and pulls two folders from the shelf at the end of the kitchen. He leads me over to the stovetop and flicks through first ringbinder until he finds the right pages.

"This is the recipe," he says. "But it's in my mum's handwriting."

I glance at the page. It looks pretty neat to me.

"That's OK," I reply. "I should be able to read everything."

He leaves me for a few seconds and I take a closer look at the recipe. It's all very familiar - melting the chocolate in a glass bowl on top of a saucepan of boiling water, then stirring in the rest of the ingredients.

Pierre is returning now with the chocolate and a packet of sugar.

"The cream and butter are in the fridge," he says. "And all the equipment should be in that cupboard." He points down to my right. "Oh, and wooden spoons are in this drawer."

He leaves me and disappears to the other side of the kitchen, but he's back seconds later with a big bowl of strawberries.

"We can do these together," he says. "I've just got them out the fridge, but they can come up to room temperature now."

He leaves me and I set to work. The chocolate makes a satisfying snap as I break it. With the water boiling, I place the bowl on top of the saucepan and keep watch, waiting for the magical moment when the cubes begin to melt. It's a couple of minutes before the chocolate softens.

For a brief moment as I stir in the cream, I imagine drizzling the dark brown sauce over Pierre's chest and licking it off. But I push the fantasy from my mind - there's no way I'll be doing that.

The kitchen door opens and Will walks in.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" he asks as soon as he spots me.

"Just helping out," I answer, a little curtly. I go back to stirring the chocolate sauce.

"You on schedule?" he asks Pierre.

"The salmon is prepped and I'm about to start cooking it. The salad and potatoes are done. The bread is ready to go out, so's the food for the residents - you can take that now." There's a slight tension in Pierre's voice, as if his working relationship with his brother is not always the easiest.

There's the sound of a fridge opening - presumably Will's checking up on his brother.

"Well, looks like you don't need me to help," he says. "I'll take this out now and I'll give you a shout when the tour starts heading over."

He walks past me carrying two trays. He gives me a sideways look before he disappears out of the door.

Pierre comes over to me.

"How's it going?" he asks.

"It's a bit slow," I answer, "but there was a lot of chocolate to melt. Your mum's recipe was very clear though."

"Have you tasted it?"

"Er no, I didn't think to," I say.

"That's one of my mum's golden rules," he replies. "The chef has to taste everything before it leaves the kitchen."

He hands me a teaspoon, to dip into the brown liquid. I toy with the idea of trying to taste the sauce seductively, but Pierre is dipping a second spoon into the bowl and not paying a blind bit of attention.

"I think that tastes OK," I offer.

"It's perfect," he replies, with a big smile. "I couldn't have done it any better."

There's a smear of chocolate on the side of his mouth. Instinctively I pick up a tea towel and wipe the little brown mark away.

Our eyes meet and he holds my gaze for a few seconds.

There's a cough from behind him. It's Will... again.

"Sorry to interrupt this er, whatever this is..." he smirks.

Pierre spins round. I can only imagine the glare on his face.

"The tour group's coming over now, so you need to get your arse back to work." Will disappears out through the door laughing his head off.

"I'll finish cooking the fish," mumbles a bright red Pierre.

He disappears to the other side of the kitchen.

--

"We got a big tip!"

Will strides triumphantly into the kitchen, holding aloft a big bunch of banknotes.

"Almost five hundred Euros!"

Pierre is slumped in a chair in the corner. He's been on the go since six this morning and he's knackered, but he still manages to raise his forearm in quiet celebration.

"The Americans are always the biggest tippers," he says weakly.

Will is alongside me now and starts counting through the cash. He pauses and hands a third to me.

"What's that for?" I protest. "I don't deserve that."

"You've been helping Pierre," he explains. "It's only fair you get your share."

I look across to his younger brother, who nods his agreement. Pierre's worked solidly for over seven hours - I've only been in the kitchen for the past three. But I graciously accept. I'll leave the cash in Pierre's room for him to find later.

Will hands Pierre his share.

"Right," he says. "Emma and I are going into town for a few hours. We'll be back in time for dinner."

--

"You saved me today," says Pierre, as we sit down in the private garden as the evening light fades. He leans over and pours me some wine.

"I'm exhausted," I sigh, accepting the glass from him. "I can't believe you do that every day."

"I'm used to it now," he replies stoically. "We lost a lot of money in the last two years with the pandemic. In an ideal world, we'd get someone in to help in the afternoons... But even if we could properly afford it, we might not get anyone suitable. It's not easy to recruit good people up here - they all want to work in town."

"Will you let me help you?" I ask. "For the rest of the time that I'm here?"

He shakes his head.

"That's not fair," he says gently. "You're supposed to be here on holiday."

"But I've really enjoyed it. And I hate the art. And there's nothing else to do," I reply. "And you need someone to lighten the load. At least till your parents get back."

He takes a sip of his wine, but doesn't say anything.

"Are your parents on holiday?" I ask.

There's a moment's hesitation.

"They're in England," he says flatly. "My mum is not well. It's too hot for her here."

"I'm sorry to hear that I say."

There's a long pause.

"I'm sure she'd be proud of what you've done here this summer," I say, taking his hand in mine.

"Thank you," he replies slowly. "I hope she is."

--

We drink the rest of the wine in the quiet of the garden. I keep a hold of his hand and he keeps my glass topped up. We just talk - about everything and nothing as the peace of the evening descends.

It's almost midnight when he leads me back inside, through the kitchen and up the back stairs on the private side of the main house. We climb up two flights and then we're into the long corridor that runs the length of the top floor. He pauses outside the first wooden door and we embrace.

"Well, this is my room," he says quietly. "If you go through the door in front of you, yours is on the left."

Is he really sending me away? An injured look spreads across my face.

"Unless you'd like to come in?" he suggests hesitantly.

My face breaks into a beaming smile. I nod, trying to hide my excitement.

We enter and he closes the door behind me.

"We used to use this for the guests, when we first started," he says, indicating the double bed.

I look around. It's quite minimalist really - sparsely furnished with a desk, chair, bookcase and wardrobe. Somehow you can tell it was once a hotel room.

I turn towards him. He's standing very close to me. He reaches across to brush a stray strand of hair from my face and we stare silently into each other's eyes. My heart is beating fast. Gently he strokes the side of my cheek. I want to kiss him so, so badly. Silently I plead for him to make the move. I take a deep breath as he leans towards me.

His lips are soft and his touch is gentle. His tongue teases mine, caressing it with tender warmth as I melt against him. Time stands still as we hold each other close.