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He tasted like woodsmoke and expensive ego, and I realized right then that my therapist was going to have a very long Monday.
Your mouth tasted like the heavy, iron-rich bottom of a glass of Petit Verdot, and I was already drunk on the proximity.
I watched the way his thumb tracked the rim of the glass, like he was looking for a flaw in my packaging before the pitch.
The humidity in the barrel room was exactly seventy-two percent, perfect for aging oak and the way her sweat didn't evaporate.
The air in the cellar didn't just carry the scent of oak and fermenting fruit; it carried the literal weight of her heartbeat against my own ribs.
Julian leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive oak and a very specific kind of corporate rebellion that I found suddenly, dangerously intoxicating.
Her mouth tasted like the heavy, dark silt of a riverbed after a flood, all iron and fermented sugar and something dangerously clean.
The condensation on her glass was the only thing cooler than the look she gave me over the rim of that Zinfandel.
She tasted like expensive dust and blackberries, her tongue pushing against mine with a demand that made my knees feel like they were made of cornmeal.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.