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The condensation on her glass is the only thing wetter than the silk shift she wore specifically to ruin my concentration.
I watched her thumb trace the rim of the glass, wondering if she knew that every slow, circular motion was making my throat go dry.
The way your thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans was a better opening statement than anything I’ve ever heard in court.
He had her pinned against the cool, damp concrete of the fermentation vat, the smell of yeast and heavy fruit thick enough to choke on.
"You looked at that glass of Petit Verdot like you were trying to find a reason to sue the winemaker, then drank it anyway."
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.