The Wine Tasting, a sanctuary fanfic

The 12 Days of Sexmas so far:

Prologue: Naughty and Nice, by NoCleverSig

Part 1: Peppermint Twist, by NoCleverSig

Part 2: Christmas in Corsets, by MajorSam

Part 3: The Wine Tasting, by NocleverSig

The 12 Days of Sexmas

"The Wine Tasting"

A Merry F****** Christmas Indeed

"I still can't believe you invited him…." John Druitt growled, shaking his head as he walked alongside Helen Magnus.

The Sanctuary hallway was aglow with candles and white lights. Garland and holly was skillfully draped across the thresholds with accents of red and gold sparkling out from the evergreens. The smell of fresh fir and pine filled the air along with the odor of warm hors d'oeuvres and standing rib roast being prepared in the kitchen. The party tonight was on a grand scale, an annual holiday tradition to thank all of the Sanctuaries' heads of households and political and financial backers for their support throughout the year. It was the one evening Dr. Helen Magnus opened her home freely to so many outsiders, and there was good reason for that. Not only did she truly want to thank and show her appreciation for their support, she desired it to continue. The best way to accomplish that was to demonstrate what their investment was achieving.

"John, I am not going to have this conversation with you again," Helen snapped back, exasperated. She was about to host the biggest, most important event of the year and her 162-year-old lover was behaving like a juvenile. It was more than infuriating.

"Yes, but Helen, Nikola Tesla…of all people…," John continued, flinging his arms up in disgust.

Helen stopped dead in her tracks. It took Druitt two seconds to realize she was no longer walking alongside him. When he finally turned around, he saw her standing in the middle of the hallway, silver and black high-heeled pumps framing her gorgeous legs; her red, shimmering, sleeveless dress hugging every curve as though the silky fabric had sprung organically from her skin. Her makeup was dark and smoky, accentuating her brilliant blue eyes. She wore teardrop silver and diamond earrings that matched her demure diamond necklace, which hit just at the hollow of her throat. It rested an inch above the sweetheart neckline of her dress, a see-through, beaded mesh overlay that offered a hint of the feminine wonders within. Her hair was artfully tousled, somehow managing to convey both professionalism and sensuality all in one fell swoop.

God, she was gorgeous! Druitt smiled and sighed, and vaguely registered the fact that she was talking to him.

"…and if it weren't for Nikola, that energy creature would still be inside you, John. You would still be a killer, and we would not be here together. It would have been rude and discourteous not to invite him," she argued vehemently.

He smiled at her. The flash of passion when she was angry, the way it heated her skin, her face, was dizzying.

"John?"

He was walking toward her slowly, deliberately. The black tailored suit he wore with his matching black shirt, the blood red holiday tie the only hint of color on his intimidating frame, the predatory look in his eye, made him resemble a panther poised and ready to strike. For a split second, Helen felt a flash of fear and fought the urge to step away from him. But when he walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, leaning down so his lips could whisper down her neck, her fear faded and instantly swelled to desire. She instinctively put her hands up to rest gently against his chest.

"John?"

"Hmmmm?" he mumbled, trailing feather-light kisses up and down her neck, sending shivers down her sleeveless arms.

"Did you hear a word I said?" she asked, her eyes half closed in pleasure.

"Oh, every one, my dear," he lied, teasing her ear lobe, playing with her dangling earring with his tongue.

"John, I…" Helen started then stopped.

A melodramatically loud and exasperated sigh echoed down the hallway, halting any further progression of their intimacy. John turned an irritable eye to the source and grimaced in recognition.

Nikola Tesla walked toward them, grey suit, white shirt, lavender tie with hands on his hips giving John and Helen a most disapproving look.

Helen felt John's muscles tighten under his shirt and could practically smell the waves of testosterone wafting off of him.

"John…" she warned under her breath. "He's our guest."

Druitt pulled away from her and turned to face the former vampire making sure to keep one hand possessively around Helen's waist. The gesture wasn't lost on her or Tesla. The dislike, and that was to put it mildly, between John and Nikola was palpable. She partially understood why…differences in personality, ego, jealousy…but she had always harbored the suspicion that something more had happened between them. She just didn't know what that something had been.

"Nikola!" John greeted him sweetly. Too sweetly. "How are you old boy?"

Tesla ignored John and looked straight at Helen. "Your man beast wants to know what kind of wine to bring out of the cellar first. I, of course, suggested Chablis, but he balked…or coughed…or whatever that hideous sound is that he makes. He wanted your opinion. I say give your guests the good stuff now, and when they're all plastered, ply them with the cheap stuff. They'll never know the difference at that point."

Helen smiled, reached over, and kissed Nikola on the cheek. "It's good to see you too, Nikola."

John narrowed his eyes at the two of them. Nikola grinned. "Oh, hello John. I didn't see you there."

John rolled his eyes, took a step toward Tesla, and opened his mouth to respond. Helen slipped out of his grasp, taking Nikola by the arm and leading him away before Druitt could do any damage to the shorter man. "Nikola, I'm so glad you could make it. Could you be a dear and help Henry in the lab. I've asked him to prepare a demonstration of your magnetic field generator for our guests, but I'm not sure he's calibrated it properly."

"You're going to show them my generator?" Nikola asked, chest puffed out and face aglow. Then he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. "And you asked Heinrich to calibrate it? Helen, what on earth were you thinking! He's liable to blow up your home, or worse, destroy my machine. If he sets the modulation too high…"

Tesla strode briskly down the hallway muttering to himself. John grinned.

"Touché, my dear. Using Tesla's massive ego as a diversion. How very inspired of you," John remarked. "Still, best to keep an eye on him..." Druitt started after the Serbian scientist but Helen reached out and grabbed him by the tie, whipping him around.

"Oh, no you don't. I'm not having any fist fights. Not tonight. You're coming with me," she said, using John's tie as a leash and gently, but insistently, pulling him down the hallway with her toward the wine cellar.

The stone cellar was cool, dark, and damp; perfect for keeping wine at its optimum flavor but sending goosebumps up Helen's sleeveless arms. John noticed and reached around with his strong hands to stroke the exposed flesh. Helen momentarily leaned back against his warm, sturdy frame as she moved to peruse the bottles of rich, red Merlot on the shelf in front of her.

They walked through the dimly lit room, Helen surveying the racks of wine, for awhile, the hostess picking out a bottle here, a bottle there, and having John place them on the table near the stairs for Biggie to come down later and retrieve. John followed Helen silently, watching as the wheels spun in her mind as she skillfully matched varietals and vintages with the appetizers, entrees, and desserts to be served. With wine, as with everything else, Helen Magnus was a genius. And John Druitt loved to watch her work.

"Why the Merlot?" John leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Helen's waist and whispering in her ear.

Helen twisted slightly to look up at him with a quizzical expression. John knew his wines and knew what they were serving. The question seemed odd. Then she saw the glint in his eye and the playful smile he was trying to suppress, and understood. He was toying with her, challenging her.

She could play this game. She turned back around and surveyed the dusty bottles that laid on their sides, selecting a bottle of Chateux Petrus, one of the most expensive Merlots she owned. She held it gently as John stroked her naked arms up and down in the dark, dank room.

"Well, as you know, John," she started, her voice low and husky, "Merlot is…softer than the Cabernets, which will appeal to some of our guests. It's more…caressing, seductive." She took her index finger and her bright, red nail, which precisely matched the deep red shade of her dress. Making sure John's view was unobstructed; she stroked the bottle slowly from its base to its neck removing a thin layer of dust that had settled over the label.

She could feel John tense behind her, his breathing deepen, his hands pressing harder against her flesh as he continued to rub her arms in the cool darkness.

"I see," he choked out, saying nothing more, although she could hear the slight catch in his voice. She smiled to herself and handed him the bottle. He dutifully walked over to the table near the front and placed it with the others, leaving her suddenly bereft and chilled in the dim light.

She moved on to a much smaller rack of Pinot Noirs and felt John's long arms enfold her once more as she scanned the labels. He wrapped his body tightly around hers, and she could feel the start of his erection pressing against the small of her back and the thin material of her dress. Her breathing sped up as well.

"And what of these, my dear?" John asked, his head resting on Helen's shoulder, his mouth sending soft, warm puffs of air into her neck and ear. His voice was low and dangerous. He'd recovered and recovered well. "What makes the Pinot Noir so…attractive."

Something about the way he'd whispered "attractive" made her muscles clench below and her breathing shallow. She took a moment to gain control, an event not lost on John, and responded.

"Ah, the Pinot Noir is a classic Burgundy wine capable of incredible greatness. But it can be finicky, difficult to coerce…," she went on, her voice a low whisper, feeling his hardness growing against her. "Yet if handled correctly, it can be one of the most profound experiences in the world…complex, seductive, lush and heady…"

Suddenly John moved one hand up from her waist to her breast and squeezed it. The other he let slide down the length of her dress to her hem, dipping his hand under the shimmering, red cloth, and trailing it up the side of her thigh-high stocking to her panties. He moved his fingers skillfully between the sheer, silken garment until he found her moist, warm heat and began to stroke her.

Helen released a shuddering sigh and closed her eyes, instinctively leaning back into him. John's head fell forward placing a deep, soft kiss into her neck that made Helen's hips rock against his now full hardness.

"John," she whispered, eyes closed. "We don't have time…"

He chuckled into her neck, easing a finger into her wet folds and silencing her half-hearted protests.

"As fast you come, my dear, we'll be finished in five minutes," he grinned against her flesh, bracing himself for the fury his comment would no doubt unleash.

"John Druitt!" Helen nearly shouted, spinning around in his arms to face him.

He stilled her with a kiss, long and deep, and scooped her up so suddenly, arms under her bottom, that she had to lock her hands on his shoulders to steady herself.

"John? What are you doing? Where are you going?"

He smiled up at her. "Just over here…"

"John," she said warningly.

He set her down gently on a small wooden table that rested against a large wooden beam in the middle of the racks of red wine: Cabernets, Merlots, Malbecs, Syrahs, and Zinfandels.

"John, our guests will be arriving in 40 minutes," she protested again, arms wrapped around his neck. "If you ruin this dress, I swear…" He smiled at her with his predatory grin, dropped down to his knees, yanked off her panties, hiked her dress up to her thighs, grabbed her by the waist, and pulled her forward on the table.

"John…" she started again, a bit more weakly this time.

He dipped his head under her garment and began teasing her clitoris with his tongue, lazily licking her, sucking her, biting her warm, moist flesh. She moved her arms to his shoulders to hang on, feeling the waves of passion begin building inside her. Suddenly he stopped, pulled back, and looked up at her, his chin glistening with her wetness.

"You were saying something my dear? About ruining your dress?" He grinned.

She looked down at him, her eyes dark and smoky and shook her head, slightly incoherent.

"Nothing…" she mumbled, her hands reaching up to caress his smooth head, tracing her nails across his ears, his cheeks. "Nevermind," she murmured.

He grinned a wicked grin. "That's what I thought," and went back to feasting on her in the middle of the Cabernets.

He quickened the pace, lapping at her faster, teasing her clit with his tongue, thrusting it inside her, feeling her hips begin to buck against him, hearing her soft, random murmurs of, "Yes…Jesus…please…God…" as he worked. When he could tell she was on the verge, he guided her legs over his shoulders, her heels bouncing against his back, forcing her bottom forward, her torso back, her arms splayed behind her on the table steadying herself.

He thrust his tongue into her once more, deep and hard, and she arched forward, her high heels digging into his back, her hips bucking up against him and he with them as he moved to ride out her climax with her.

"Dear God!" she screamed, pushing against his mouth, her eyes blinded, her heart racing, her hips rocking so hard as she came she was vaguely afraid she'd knock him over.

When she'd barely finished he stood up, unzipped his fly, and released his cock, reaching for her limp body and pulling her tight against him. She arched her hips in response, wrapping her legs around his back, her arms around his neck, holding him as he drove into her.

She was tight, muscles clenched from her just finished orgasm, her face flush and wild. Her hair was still that sensuous mix of sophistication and sex. Everything about her was dazzling. He banged her onto the table, unable to go slowly, praying fleetingly to God that it wouldn't collapse underneath them.

She was lush and heady and seductive like a perfect Pinot Noir. He was hard and dark and powerful like the finest Argentinian Malbec.

He was moving so hard and so fast that all she could do was hold on, cringing at the mixture of pleasure and pain his massive manhood delivered. Finally, with one last thrust he drove into her, causing her to gasp out loud at the intensity of it, pulling her with him once more as he poured himself into her.

"Oh my God," she mumbled softly when she finally could find breath again, clinging to him. Coming to her senses, she sat up. "John! The time!"

He lifted his left arm and gazed lazily at his watch. "Seven minutes," he said flatly.

"What?" Helen asked, bewildered.

"That took seven minutes, and you came in about three. Plenty of time to tidy up. And your dress is far from ruined. In fact," he said, leering at her, "It looks somehow better than before."

Helen narrowed her eyes at him and playfully slapped him on the ass. "Cheeky monkey," she smiled.

"I'd forgotten how loud and perverse you two were," a voice echoed from up the stairwell.

John quickly pulled out of Helen, tucking himself in and zipping himself up in one, quick movement.

"Nikola, old boy, what pray tell are you doing here?" John turned around, standing purposefully in front of Helen to give her time to pull down her dress and make any other adjustments that might be necessary before Nikola made it completely down the stairs.

Tesla took the last step and moved into the cellar, taking in the flush, too innocent faces of his former schoolmates then noting the bottles of wine on the table nearby.

"Well, at least you two got something productive done while you were down here. I'll just send your man beast down to fetch them. They need time to breath you know," he said bitingly. "As do you two it seems," sweeping them with a disapproving look.

He started to turn around and leave, disgusted by Helen and John's typical arduous public display, when he noted the bottle of Chateux Petrus on the table. He grabbed it.

"I'll take this one. Consider it my hush money." And he turned around and stormed loudly up the stairs.

"That pompous ass!" John spat, looking after him.

Helen, now standing next to his side, arm on his back, tapped John on the shoulder.

"John, tell me. What is it between you two? Why do you despise Nikola so?"

"Aside from the fact that he's an egotistical ass who would put his hand up your skirt in a heartbeat?" John shot back with vehemence.

Helen looked at him, surprised. "Well," she paused. "Yes."

John hesitated, and then looked at her. "He called you a 'strumpet'," he admitted grudgingly.

"A what?" she smiled, trying to suppress a laugh.

"When we were at Oxford. The night of the Christmas concert. You were wearing a red dress, very festive…insanely beautiful. He muttered under his breath, loud enough that I could hear him that you looked like a 'common strumpet.' I waited until after the concert, after I walked you home, then returned to his flat and decked him for dishonoring you."

Helen grinned. She remembered the black eye Nikola had sported that Christmas. He'd been particularly reticent about explaining its origins and John had said nothing.

"All these years you've hated him because he called me a 'strumpet'?"

John nodded, his expression grim. "He dishonored you. I knew it was out of jealousy of our relationship, his own designs on you..." he continued. "But still. He was out of line."

Helen shook her head, trying not to laugh. "John, of all the things Nikola has said and done over the years him calling me a 'strumpet' is one of the least of his crimes!" she giggled.

John smiled at her, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss it. "Perhaps, my dear, but you're my 'strumpet' and mine alone, and I'll have no other man refer to you as such," he smiled wickedly.

"John!" she yelled at him, her face turning red with anger. She was no one's property. The flash of passion when she was angry, the way it heated her skin, her face, was dizzying.

And suddenly John Druitt wondered if they'd ever leave the cellar.

END