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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.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.
The heat coming off him was like a Santa Ana wind, dry and relentless, making the hair on my arms stand straight up.
!["I Didn't Say You Could Swallow"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-didn't-say-you-could-swallow"-80-cover-1775998051877.jpg)
The air in the cellar was thick, a heavy blanket of damp earth and French oak that made the high-altitude dryness of my real life feel like a hallucination.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.