“Yes miss, you are the only person here… what… is… your… name?”

Before the sarcasm slipped from his mouth he silently scolded her dusty green eyes, her soft pink lips, her obvious temper – damn it, this is a sexy women.

“Right, yes, well sorry Officer but I’m alone in the center of the middle of nowhere with a car that seems to have given up the right to life, in the worst heat wave on record, my cell phone is a piece of shit and now I wonder if I have in fact done something illegal since you are standing over me asking me my name.”

“I am here to help you miss… let’s start with your name.” his tone softer.

She stared at the wheel where her hands still gripped as if her sheer will could change the circumstance. A long deep sigh was authentically released and she spoke without malice. “I’m Belle, Belle Brin D’Amour…” Pausing, her lids slowly closed and her tired shoulders rested. “…and I need your help. Please.”

She was embarrassed. He was mesmerized. Except for the loud beating of his chest in his throat, there was only silence as he let the most beautiful woman he had ever seen catch her breath.

Herbaceous whispers from the surrounding fields took over the atmosphere. A hot wind swirled around his legs and in and then out of her old and beaten Volkswagen.

“Ms. Brin D’Amour, my name is Office Roncal and I will help you so please, please just calm down and let me do my job.”

One eye opened and she finally saw him. Strawberry blonde wisps of hair peaked from under his stiff hat. She envisioned her hand reaching to remove his bronze sunglasses to see if he was looking at her, but of course she did not move. He looked raw. He looked like he was ready to be savoured and instantly her mouth became wet.

Each man leisurely leans against the car, one with arms folded and one with arms behind, as if to hold him in place.

Mimolette is French, although his red stubble would give him away as a Scot. He tastes divine with white grapes and sweet cherries. A tough exterior has been weathered by time but the closer you get to his center the more complex he becomes. He is hard in his worn black jeans as he watches her throw handfuls of bronze feed into the thick pasture of barking goats.

Manchego is a Spaniard and god is he good. Ivory skin, rough interior, smells of ocean, hay and sweat. He is best enjoyed with a fiery beverage that strips the throat and warms the soul. His body gently becomes alive and in an act almost poetic he slowly removes his watch, throwing it in the back of the car.

As quickly as Selles sur Cher grins she looks away. She is not afraid of their menacing smiles or the utter aloneness the three strangers find themselves in, but, instead of her own thoughts. A sigh sneaks between her lips as she contemplates which one she would choose, which would taste better?

Then, in a surreal moment she stands tall, drops the bucket and stares at them both, challenging their gaze.

I haven’t thought about him in years. I miss the soft ivory sand tickling between my painted toes. I miss his salty fingers. He had been a luscious reality for too short a time.

But today, underneath me, a way-to-young-black-haired-musician just denied my further juicy memories. He slips the grape through his lovely puckered lips but carelessly sucks like it was an after dinner mint. What an amateur. I can now assume he will not be a very good lover after all. I’m outta here.

“Got to go honey, thanks for everything” If I spend one more minute in this incense-rich, beer-splattered, dead-rockstar shrine, of an apartment I just might jump out the window. Instead I jump off of him.

“What you mean babe, the party just got started.”

“Yes, well, I am all partied out Roger.”

“Rick.”

“Right, sorry, Rick, I forgot a meeting so another time okay?”

Purse, check. Shiny blue-leather-sexiest-woman-alive stiletto’s, check. Phone, damn. “Rick sweetie, you seen my phone.”

“Dresser.”

“Right, well I’m off, thanks for, well thanks for the grapes.” I close the door, move a few steps to the curb and hiss a sigh of relief. My hand shoots through the air and a cab pulls to my rescue. Thank god.

“What you have here is the real dream, your own field, vines and production not to mention the California Sun. You’re living the perfect life.” Crème Fraiche wondered if Caerphilly ever made love to a woman. What a shame if she hadn’t.

“Well that is one way to win my wife over.” Gruyere rejoined the interview, scratching his three-day old blond stubble as if he’d just awoken. “It’s my turn to tell you how things work around here.”
Crème Fraiche became enamored of the arduous Gruyere the moment he met her at the gate. Layers of golden brown hair edged his strong jaw and his smooth, creamy-beige skin was aged to perfection. He pretended to be older than he was to mask his need for being perceived as a strong and powerful man. He smelled of ocean spray.

Gruyere is assertive. His rugged sexiness came from working in extreme climates. He told her he traveled across Europe and loves old wine. So he has good taste… and probably tastes good, Crème Fraiche licked her lips at the thought.

Gruyere looked at his wife. She nodded to his silent question. “The job is yours Crème Fraiche, if you want it?”

What a shame. No matter what, she wouldn’t be staying here too long. She knew herself well enough to know that she would seduce this man and consume his wife. She stood, looked out the kitchen window, to the fields and smiled. “When can I start?”

My body was shaking, I was so alive and all my senses were in overdrive. Pungent aromas of damp grass, ammonia and mushrooms filled the air. He said it “reminds me of your skin Epoisses.”

In one moment we stood apart and the next he was standing so close that our bodies were touching. I didn’t know what to do with my energy and silently begged for a release.

My body was hot from our quest and my breath heavy with tension.

No one spoke.

He unzipped my coat and slid his cold hands under my thin black sweater, grabbing at my waist and sending shivers throughout my core. It was fast, urgent and I gasped for breath when he pulled me tight.

I reached first under his jacket and then under his red and green plaid shirt to feel his rippled stomach. What a body. Hard on every inch, covered with lean currents of muscle.

His mouth opened as he looked at my lips. Leaning in, he passionately kissed me for the first time. He tasted of spiced nuts and lemon cheesecake. He melted in my mouth with a wet hard texture. I reached for his face, my fingers grabbing at his jaw and then his thick blonde hair. My body limp in his embrace.

The air was brisk. He took off my jacket and his own. He whispered, “Can you imagine how fun it would be to make love on this roof?”

Crème Fraiche strolled past the rustic fence and the row of plum and pear trees that circled the farm house that hid his shy fantasty.

Gruyere jumped up, swearing loudly after hitting the table with his leg and knocking the bowl of strawberries to the ground. He looked out the window. She vanished. The doorbell rang. Damn. Did I lock the door?

“Gruyere, are you in the kitchen?” And with that Crème Fraiche answered his fear and walked in without permission.

He didn’t have a shirt on.

There were strawberries on every inch of the black and white checkered floor.

Crème Fraiche giggled. “Oh my, what have you done?”

“You should have knocked. I spilled the damn fruit.”

She met his nervous eyes and then deliberately stared at his body, seeing him shirtless for the first time. He was magnificent. Strong sculptured arms and wide brawny shoulders met his flat chiseled chest. Soft light brown hair tickled his belly button teasing her to touch it.

She gave a sweet nod of her head, acknowledging the hardness pushing his yellow boxers. “Sit down Gruyere. I will take care of everything.”

He did as he was told.

She got down on her knees and began picking up the red berries one at a time. “Do you have any champagne?”

“It’s not even 9:00 am. Are you celebrating something?” He flirted.

“Not yet” she whispered. “I just like champagne with strawberries.” She teased him, seductively prowling across the floor like a cat.

“There is some in the cellar, but, um, I can’t really get up right now.”

Crème Fraiche crawled over to his chair. She sat up on her knees and bewitchingly put her hands on his thighs. “And why is that Gruyere?”

…

When we joined the guests on the dance floor all I wanted was him inside me. He held me tightly as we danced for the first time. “I want you Epoisses, I have always wanted you.” We stirred to the music with a tranquil quiet, like the lake before a storm.

Those damn eyes, grey and glistening with flecks of caramel, took my breath. His one hand held onto my body while his other hand moved my hair behind my ear and then lightly touched my face. His mouth left soft kisses, first my cheek, then my nose and my chin. Finally Cheddar meet my mouth with his.

What a kiss. At first it was just our lips, soft and subtle, meeting for the first time and refusing to move away. Then they opened ever so slightly and his luscious tongue touched mine. A perfect moment in time.

He pulled me tighter so I could feel him harden against my thigh. I moved my hand from his hip and brought it to his crotch, caressing him through his fine linen fabric. He took a sweet nibble at my bottom lip before taking my hand away and clutching it to his with a sigh. “Oh women, what are you doing to me?” We stood unmoving, embraced in passion not caring that the music stopped and the room was staring.

Both men were confident, sexy, starved and she knew that they could smell her beauty, her essence.

She looked down to the earth and back up, little by little, connecting the three of them to her intention. Her vulnerability and raw sexuality surprised her.

The two men nodded. They both swallowed hard and she felt her own potency. She had started the game, she was in control and there was no going back.

“Well then get to work… and my name is Selles sur Cher.”

Through her small glassless window she knew the strangers planned their strategy. Butterflies flirted in her belly as blood red wine slipped into three mason jars. A lost drip fell on her wrist; slowly she licked it clean while she wondered if the two men were a creation of her imagination.

Selles sur Cher greeted them in the long wildflowers lining the edge of the land with a tray of wine, purple cherries and a thick, sticky honey comb. Her own valley moistened, and she knew their chores were over.

“Drink” was all she said.

The one with the fiery red hair and red stubble emptied his jar but instead of giving it back to her he let it drop to the field, lost in the long grass. He smiled mischievously and inched closer to the front of her body, noticeably breathing her quintessence.

Her eyes traced the line of red hair from his belly button to the not-so-hidden hardness under the one unopened button of his faded jeans. Selles sur Cher’s mouth had never been so wet. His friend, ripples of slick ivory skin peppered with grass that the water had not found, did the same with his now empty jar, stepping behind her so she could feel the tickle of his warm breath on her neck. She was surrounded. She didn’t need to look around; she knew they were alone in her field. It was her move.

Slowly, she drank, fire replacing the butterflies in her belly.

“There is something I should tell you…” her voice a raspy invitation, tempting, electric. “I don’t own a phone.”

“I dare presume Ms. Roquefort, but would you like to see the penthouse?”

“The penthouse? Yes I would, but are we allowed, I mean what if we’re caught?”

“Then I guess I would be fired.” He smiles showing off that full mouth. “And you are a lawyer so you can get me my job back.” He pauses, reaching across and taking my hand in his. “The weekend’s occupant cancelled his night and won’t be arriving until tomorrow. Please. The view is exquisite.” A lingering look up my legs implies the view he is really interested in.

“Lead the way.” I escaped further connection, put the game in play and we can get back to what we started.

As soon as the elevator door closes he inserts a key blocking any others from accessing its doors and presses the burgundy P trimmed in gold. Turning so we are standing nose to nose, this brave young man places a hand behind my head and pulls me to his wet mouth. Hell yes. This is what I wanted. Finally a kiss. His lips are butter soft and his curious tongue tastes like fresh cream. His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer. “Mmm,” sneaks from my throat.

A ‘ding’ fills the space, the doors open and he leads me out into the foyer of the nicest suite in town. A double set of carved cherry wooden doors stops me from seeing the affluent world behind them. I am gently spun around for another earth shattering kiss before being leaned against the cold marble wall. Wasting no time his hand is between my thighs, petting me every inch up my short skirt. I spread my legs and bite his tongue.

“Caerphilly I don’t know if I can leave without tasting you.” She stood, grabbed the champagne and drank straight from its head. “I’m getting another bottle, please don’t leave.”

She was in the cottage only a few seconds when the door behind her closed. Caerphilly stood with her back to Crème Fraiche, locking the latch, closing the already closed linen drapes a little tighter. The aroma of ripe fruit and fresh cream filled the air.

In a whirlwind Crème Fraiche dropped the empty bottle on the rug and pressed the front of her body to Caerphilly’s back. She moved her long sandy hair, kissing her neck while her hands ran down her hips.

Without turning, Caerphilly pulled her shirt over her head. Crème Fraiche did the same, pressing her breasts onto her boss’s skin.

“You’re so beautiful.” Crème Fraiche spoke to Caerphilly’s back.

She unbuttoned Caerphilly’s shorts and let them fall to the ground with her cotton panties and then her own shorts fell. She was not wearing anything underneath. Moving closer again, she breathed promise on her skin. While leaving gentle kisses on her ear lobes, her hands explored her smooth creamy waist.

The warmth of the room embraced them. Caerphilly moaned and opened her eyes. She was no longer afraid. She turned herself around and leaned against the hard wooden door as Crème Fraiche kissed her chin and lifted Caerphilly’s arms over her head.

Their mouths met.