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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.
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.
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.
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.