Warning! Adult sexual content. You must be of legal age in your country to read this blog.
The last time I wore this outfit, I was hand in hand with the dashing Andrew* while sipping a Sparkling Brut in the early evening sun of a perfect Summer Night’s Eve. Andrew and I had arrived sharply at the Estate for 6:30pm to enjoy our progressive epicurean odyssey through the Jackson Triggs Winery. At the time, the dinner was almost five hundred dollars per couple – a nine course dinner, each dish complimented with private label pairings and served in a different room in the winery – and reservations were difficult to come by for their Niagara Estate.
The other eighteen guests were trickling in and it began to look like a “beautiful people” evening on the veranda. Crisp shirts for the men and beautifully designed sundresses and pantsuits for the ladies. Almost everyone wore sunglasses or a chic hat to tame the red glare of the setting western sun. While I was elegantly casual in a strappy tunic, black velvet leggings and stiletto heels, Andrew looked positively delicious in a short sleeved cream shirt, open at his neck, and dark dress pants. The sleeves of his shirt were pulled taut with his biceps. His silver hair, gray eyes and tan looking glorious in 6’4″ muscle.
A refined couple from Texas stopped in front of us to mingle and chat, with the wife openly eyeing my Andrew. Always the gentleman, he laughed and smiled at her jokes, while reaching around to stroke my back. Her eyes followed his hand as it traveled up and down my arm, my side, my hip from my neck to my bum. I leaned into him … I just couldn’t help it.
We chatted about the countryside and the quaint shops, and made shopping suggestions for the travelers. Andrew moved his hand under the back of my tunic to caress my heated bare skin. His thumb would dip under the the back of my strapless bra and softly stroke a path to my side. I would tense with anticipation as his thumb would near the side of my breast. I straightened, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, moving temptation just out of his reach. Andrew’s hand dropped to my lower back. He reached into my leggings to snag my g-string with one, long finger. I continued to smile and chatter with the group while Andrew wound his finger around the tail of the string and tugged. He lazily rubbed between my cheeks, enjoying the flush that rose around my neck and face. I gulped more wine and fidgeted due to the ardor spreading between my legs.
I excused myself to take an incoming telephone call, and then stepped into the ladies washroom to refresh my lipstick. Just as I was slipping my Gucci sunglasses over my eyes, our friendly Texan stepped in. She smiled as she saw me and said “You and your husband are lovely. You must come visit us if you are ever in Houston. What’s the secret to your happiness?”
“Wonderful sex anywhere we can grab it,” I said with a wide grin. I’d leave that picture of the two of us in her head. She tilted it back and laughed.
“Delightful!” she exclaimed. “Ben and I must try to rekindle that.”
I wandered back outside to find Andrew leaning over the edge of the long deck running the full side of the Jackson Triggs Winery. I stood beside him and reached up to run my fingers through his hair just above his shirt collar. We stood quietly and looked out at the beautiful scenery before us. The deck overlooked the Estate’s expansive vineyards to the south. Row upon row of vines were cultivated in neat lines to cling to supporting wires. Their clusters of this summer’s new grapes were just beginning to show. The breeze picked up the curls in my hair and Andrew leaned forward to tuck them in behind my ear.
“You are gorgeous,” he said with a smile. Sigh. What woman doesn’t love to hear that from her man?
A perfectly dressed waitress came by with a selection of hors d’oeuvres – brie topped with beets, luxurious pâté smeared over thick crostini and little bites of lobster sprinkled with fresh chives in teeny tiny rolls. She topped up our sparkling wine and informed us that the next course would be served inside by the fireplace in the Great Hall. We would gather there before taking a tour up to the stainless steel barrels for a tutorial on winemaking.
You will have to forgive me if I slosh through the wines and the food, and perhaps a few of the rooms, as the servings were generous over the four-hour event. But I never forgot the evening.
We sampled Sauvignon Blanc with skewers of salmon sashimi rolled up with ginger and lime. Then came shelled plates with scallops served in a lemon and beurre blanc sauce.
The group moved on to the stainless barrels and were handed petite plates of pumpkin ravioli with several ounces of Chardonnay. I love a good oaked Chard and remember closing my eyes and savouring this little piece of heaven. Andrew leaned in to kiss my nose, not wanting to miss the look of sheer ecstasy on my face. He whispered sweet nothings in my ear about later, and making that same look of physical pleasure cross my face once again. We are creatures of our appetites.
I opened my eyes, smiled and placed my hand on his face. Looking at his mouth, I ran my thumb greedily over his lips. He kissed it, then sucked it into his mouth. The jolts of attraction shot right from my fingertips through to my thighs.
Off in a side room, they were grilling bamboo skewers of lamb drizzled with fresh mint, accompanied by a glass of Shiraz. I ate little pieces, my eyes following Andrew as he licked and tasted each morsel.
I couldn’t stand one more minute.
We held back from the crowd, handed our plates and glasses to a waiter, then embraced on the stainless steel staircase. He pushed me up against one of the large stainless steel barrels and told me what he wanted to do to me right there. He was pushed up behind me into my back, rock hard, whispering commands in my submissive ear. Andrew spun me around, held me tight and kissed me deeper than I have ever kissed before. I was truly breathless.
I absolutely wish we had a photo to capture that moment. That kiss – so long and deep – will always remind me of his taste … on our wine and dine weekend in the beautiful Niagara-on-the-Lake region.
We missed a complete room and a course – shooed on by the staff – and caught up with the tour in a gallery, wickedly guilty grins on our faces.
The dinner guests made their way down to the barrel cellars. Several degrees cooler, we sat down at lovely, long oak tables laden with cheese, fruit and candles. Andrew wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close, whispering that we would soon warm up. The cellars were dressed with white stucco walls and low vaulted ceilings with enormous wine barrels lining one side. We chatted ear to ear about the big, earthy barrels and what we could accomplish playing amongst those.
Our tastebuds were rebooted with crisp salads and artisan breads served with even more delicious wines leading up to the main entrées. Gorgeous goblets of Cab Merlot and Seared Duck filled us up. Those plates were whisked away and replaced with a Cab Sauv and delicately grilled bison on rosti. By this time I was feeling pretty tipsy – and had no difficulty telling Andrew what and where I wanted him. The gentleman to my left leaned forward to smile and listen.
Dinner wasn’t rushed. We had time to eat, drink, relax and chat. The sommeliers walked around with bottles and answers. Finally – all of us full – we were ushered back upstairs to the deck.
Night had fallen. A few stars were out. But the air had that electrified vibe which announced an incoming storm. Far off to the south near Niagara Falls we could see large forks of lightning striking the ground.
The breeze picked up while we sampled Ice Wine. I declined to indulge in the pear sorbet and homemade hazelnut biscuits for dessert.
Ice wine is a Canadian game, discovered with the serendipity of grapes frozen on the vines. Years ago, winter came early, and the vintner rushed to pick and press the grapes, lest he lose the entire crop. Now, the last grapes are left on the vine to shrivel – concentrating their sugars and alcohol – then picked and pressed when the temperature reaches -8C. The result … is an intensely concentrated nectar boasting flavors and aromas which are richly complex. You will taste honey and apricots, peaches and berries … some raisin notes. Canadian Ice Wine is young and still developing. Canadian vineyards in Niagara are still playing with grape varieties and aging. A bottle can be very expensive since one grape may only yeild one drop … but it is worth each sip.
The evening winded down with coffee and the crowd disbanded as taxis arrived. No one was driving this evening.
Andrew and I decided to take a side tour through the vineyards before leaving the grounds. We walked, held hands and talked. The cool air refreshed my head.
We finally grabbed our cab, but – perhaps with heads too full of wine – we decided to stop in the village. We had our driver drop us off at a tiny pub where we went in for one final nite cap. I’m pretty sure I stuck to soda water, but I can’t vouch for that, nor can Andrew. After tossing the drinks back, we stepped outside to walk down the riverside road to our historic bed & breakfast.
The only problem was … I had my signature 5-inch stiletto heels on. The ground was uneven. And by now, it was pouring rain. Andrew told me to hop on, so, my heels in my hand, I took a running jump and he piggy-backed me almost all of the way to our bed. Shrieking with laughter, we decided to seek cover, and found a beautiful cove by the water. We sat down to watch the rain, the lightning and to make love.
Right there, in the thicket of trees, rain pouring down. My heels were already off. My leggings and g-string followed. Andrew pushed me down on the leaves and grass and entered me, his hands cupping my ass to protect it from scratches from the forest bed below. My legs wrapped around his hips. The rain and the wind whipped around us, and feeling wantonly wild, I bit him. Despite the drinks in our system, we came in the middle of the storm. His shirt back was completely drenched, as well as his pants. Rivulets of water dripped from his tiny curls onto my upturned face. I remember looking up and seeing flashes of light in the sky.
We laughed – then startled by the loud crack of thunder – and realized that the eye of the storm was too close. We dressed as best we could and ran for the entrance of The Grand Victorian mansion on the edge of the boutique Reif Winery Estate.
We burst in the front door, my hair a mess with grass and twigs, sand on my feet and my heels in my hand. My tunic was drenched right through and clung to my body like a second skin. Andrew’s shirt was almost see-through while soaked. I wanted to lick his nipple.
My hunk picked me up and carried me up the flight of stairs to the Victorian room we had chosen. The River Room, with a gorgeously solid four-poster bed and fireplace. Our room looked out onto the front porch and yards.
Andrew shut the window and pulled the drapes partially closed. We peeled off our wet clothing, dancing around on our feet. He started the fire while I started the shower.
Cold from the rain, we showered in hot water, toweled off and got into bed.
I was naked, lying on my stomach so Andrew reached around and grabbed my hips. He pulled me up on all fours and entered me from the rear, realizing my rather full tummy couldn’t take his full weight. Andrew was on his knees behind me, holding me in one place.
The storm raged outside and we whipped up our own storm inside. The night as wild as we could make it. At one point we moved to the front window (our thing in Niagara … like The Taming of Niagra Falls!) I was in front of Andrew, facing outside while he fucked me again from behind. He held me up and over the window, my fingers bracing myself on the sill. I hoped that the guests below us were deep sleepers …
Finally exhausted from food, drink and sex, we tumbled into the heavenly pile of cool white pillows and sheets. I pulled the exquisitely stitched quilt up over us. Facing each other in the middle of the bed, my head sank into the crook of Andrew’s arm. My top leg slipped in between his legs and his arm draped over me to hold my ass. This is how we slept each night.
Sometime around 9am the next morning, my eyes peeked open at the sunlight. We’d left the curtains open again last night. I smelled coffee brewing below and recalled that breakfast was only served between 6:30 to 9:30am. I poked at Andrew, asking him if he wanted to eat. He rolled over, said something unintelligible, his long legs hanging out of the bed.
I got up alone, showered and put some makeup on, then tapped his shoulder once again. He pulled me back in bed, me squealing, and said, “Wait 5 minutes while I get dressed.”
Finally presentable, we went down the grand Chippendale staircase to the dining room. All eyes looked up as we entered. Andrew and I selected chairs at one end then piled our plates with breakfast scones, freshly made strawberry jam and cream.
“Quite the storm last night,” someone said.
“Yes,” we replied in unison. Andrew offered the tidbit that we had been to the Jackson Triggs Estate for dinner and got caught in the rain upon returning.
One gentleman, smiling sunnily quipped “The storm must have gone on all night! We heard nothing but banging from the room above ours. The wind must have whipped things around something fierce.”
Andrew smiled and winked. “Indeed. It was QUITE the storm. I love them that wild, don’t you?”
*Name(s) changed to protect the guilty!
Read the Fox Blog: hear what the Fox really has to say
© Lisa Jobson 2017