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I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
The wine was a 2014 Syrah, but the only thing I could taste was the salt on Simon’s thumb when he pressed it against my lower lip.
The condensation on the Chablis bottle was the only thing wetter than the look Claire was giving the estate manager.
The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
The wine wasn't the catalyst; it was the way Julian looked at Ben looking at me, a silent permission for the world to tilt.
The leather across my thighs felt like a closing argument I wasn’t prepared to refute, sharp and final.
The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
Julian held the crystal over the guttering candle, his thumb tracing the rim as if he were checking a witness’s pulse for lies.
Julian leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive oak and a very specific kind of corporate rebellion that I found suddenly, dangerously intoxicating.
He looked at me across the tasting room like I was a budget deficit he intended to balance with his bare hands.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.