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Malachi’s thumb was stained purple, the juice of the grape looking too much like a bruise as he pressed it against the hollow of my throat.
She held the steel blades against the vine with the same practiced indifference she used to strike lines from my copy.
Her spine had that neutral, dangerous curve of a loaded spring, and the way her husband watched me watch her made the wine in my throat turn to liquid lead.
The way Julian looked at me across the tasting table had all the subtle, expensive violence of a hostile takeover bid.
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.