Did You Honestly Believe I’d Let You Walk Away After That Comment About the Tannins?

[Transcript: Session 14, Dr. Aris Thorne, Recording Date: October 22nd] [Blair]: (Sound of a glass being set down, a long sigh) You’re looking at me with that 'professional neutrality' again, Aris. It’s a winery in Napa. It’s meant for bad decisions. That’s why they give you the little spit buckets—it’s a metaphor for all the things you should say but don't. Only, I didn’t use mine. [Dr. Aris]: You mentioned a man. Julian. [Blair]: Right. Julian. He was wearing this linen shirt that looked like it had never known the indignity of a wrinkle. You know the type. He looked like he owned a yacht but was too bored to sail it. I’m going to tell this to you three ways, okay? Because that’s how I’m processing it. Like a draft. We’ll start with the version I’d tell my mother if she were still alive and hadn’t been a Baptist from Savannah. **Version One: The Tasting Notes** It was the 2018 Estate Cabernet. The sun was hitting the Silverado Trail at that perfect, slanted angle that makes everything look like a movie set. I was standing at the mahogany bar at Stag’s Leap, trying to pretend I actually knew what 'forest floor' was supposed to taste like. Julian was three stools down. He disagreed with the sommelier. Not loudly, but with that terrifying, quiet confidence of a man who has never been told 'no' by a waiter. He said the tannins were 'unnecessarily aggressive,' which is exactly how I’d describe my ex-husband’s lawyer. I laughed. He looked over. We spent the afternoon talking about soil. Volcanic ash versus loam. He was charming, in a sharp-edged way. He had these hands—long fingers, clean nails, the kind of hands that look like they’ve never done a day of manual labor but could probably take an engine apart if they felt like it. We shared a charcuterie board. I ate the Marcona almonds, he ate the olives. It was civilized. It was sophisticated. We walked through the vineyards as the sun went down, and he kissed my hand before we went our separate ways to our respective hotels. [Dr. Aris]: (Pause) Blair. [Blair]: (Laughing) Okay, okay. God, you’re no fun. You’re right. That version is a lie. It’s the Hallmark edit. Let’s try again. **Version Two: The Subtext** Julian didn’t just 'disagree' with the sommelier. He decimated the poor kid. He said, 'If I wanted to chew on a cedar plank, I’d go to Home Depot,' and I nearly choked on my Sauvignon Blanc. I didn’t just laugh; I snorted. It was unladylike. He turned that gaze on me—eyes the color of a very expensive, very cold gin and tonic—and said, 'You find my disappointment amusing, Georgia?' I didn’t even tell him I was from Georgia. I guess the way I say 'sugar' gives it away. I told him he was being a snob. I told him he was missing the point of the grape. 'And what is the point?' he asked. He moved closer. He smelled like sandalwood and something metallic, like a coin held in a warm palm. 'The point is to get a little bit reckless,' I said. He didn't look at the wine then. He looked at my mouth. He looked at it like he was reading a contract for a hostile takeover. The banter wasn't about soil, Aris. It was about dominance. Every word was a dare. He’d say something about the 'structure' of the wine, and I’d tell him his own structure looked a little too rigid for his own good. He took my glass out of my hand. He set it on the bar. Then he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear, and whispered, 'I think you need a private tour of the cellar. The public rooms are clearly making you'—he paused, his lips almost brushing my lobe—'feisty.' We didn't walk through the vineyards. We slipped past the 'Staff Only' sign while the tour guide was busy explaining irrigation to a couple from Des Moines. The air in the cellar was forty degrees cooler. It smelled like damp earth and ancient wood. It felt like stepping into a tomb, or a church, or a bedroom. He pinned me against a stack of French oak barrels. His hands weren't on my hand; they were on my waist, squeezing hard enough that I knew I’d have faint yellow bruises by Tuesday. He didn’t kiss me. He just stared at me, waiting for me to break. 'Still think I’m rigid?' he asked. I reached up and yanked his tie—the silk felt like water between my fingers—and told him he was talking too much. [Dr. Aris]: And? [Blair]: (Her voice drops an octave) And now we get to the third version. The one I haven't written down. The one that’s still making my skin feel a size too small for my body. **Version Three: The Angel’s Share** The cellar was dark, lit only by a few low-wattage bulbs that cast long, distorted shadows across the vats. The moisture in the air settled on my skin like a film. My silk dress—that champagne-colored one with the thin straps that I bought specifically to feel like a different version of myself—was sticking to my thighs. Julian didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed me back against the cold, curved wood of a barrel. The metal hoop of the barrel was a freezing line across my shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the sudden, overwhelming heat of his body. 'You have a very loud mouth for a woman who claims to be refined,' he rasped. His voice was different now. The polished, Ivy League veneer had cracked. 'I never claimed to be refined,' I said, my breath hitching as he slid one hand up my leg. He wasn't gentle. He bunched the silk of my dress in his fist, hiking it up until the cool cellar air hit my crotch. I wasn't wearing much under there—just a scrap of lace that cost more than my first car’s tires. He hooked two fingers into the edge of that lace and tugged. Not enough to rip it, but enough to let me know he could. 'You’ve been grading me since the moment I sat down,' he said. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He didn't kiss me; he bit. Just a sharp, stinging nip right where the shoulder meets the neck. I let out a sound that wasn't a moan—it was a sharp, jagged gasp that echoed off the stone walls. 'B-plus,' I managed to choke out, though my knees were turning to water. 'Maybe an A-minus if you stop talking.' He laughed, a low, vibration I felt in my own chest. He let go of my dress and grabbed both of my wrists, pinning them above my head against the oak. He was taller than me, heavy and solid. I felt the hard, uncompromising line of his erection pressing against my stomach through his linen trousers. It was a promise of something blunt and honest. He kissed me then. It wasn't a romance novel kiss. There was no 'melting.' It was a collision. He tasted like the dregs of that heavy Cabernet—bitter, dark, and intoxicating. His tongue was a demand. I fought back, biting at his lower lip until I tasted the faint, copper tang of blood. He groaned into my mouth, a raw, guttural sound that made my pulse throb in my throat. He let go of my wrists, but only so he could work his belt loose. The sound of the buckle clicking was like a starting gun. I reached for him, my fingers fumbling with his buttons, desperate to feel the heat of him against my palms. When I finally got his trousers down, he was already leaking, a bead of moisture at the tip of him that I smeared across his skin with my thumb. He was thick, his skin smooth and incredibly hot compared to the chill of the cellar. 'Now,' I whispered. 'Right now, Julian.' 'Not yet,' he said, his voice straining. He turned me around. He pressed my face against the rough wood of the barrel. I could smell the wine seeping through the pores of the oak, that deep, fermented fruit smell. He pulled my dress all the way up to my waist and stepped behind me. I felt his hands on my hips—wide, strong, anchoring me. He didn't use a condom. I know, Aris. Don't give me that look. It was reckless. It was the point. He guided himself to me. I was already slick, my body betraying every bit of that 'Southern reserve' I pretend to have. When he pushed inside, he did it in one slow, agonizingly steady movement. He was so big he felt like he was stretching me apart, filling every empty space I’d been carrying around since the divorce. I cried out, the sound muffled by the wood of the barrel. I bit my own lip to keep from screaming. He stayed there for a second, buried deep, his chest heaving against my back. 'You still... want to talk... about the tannins?' he wheezed. I couldn't answer. I just bucked my hips back against him, needing the friction. He started to move—long, heavy strokes that felt like they were reaching all the way to my ribs. Every time he hit the back of me, the barrel creaked, a rhythmic, wooden groan that timed our movements. It was messy. My hair was coming out of its pins, sticking to my damp forehead. He was sweating now, the scent of him turning primal—salt and musk and man. He reached around, one hand finding my breast, squeezing it through the silk of my dress, his thumb rubbing hard against my nipple until it was a point of pure ache. His other hand went down, finding the spot where we were joined, his fingers working against me with a frantic, expert rhythm. I was climbing. I was a kite in a hurricane. Everything was dark and cold except for the place where he was inside me, which was a white-hot furnace. I started to shake. My fingers clawed at the wood, splinters catching under my nails, but I didn't care. 'Julian, please,' I whimpered. 'Look at me,' he commanded. I turned my head as far as I could. He was looking at me with a terrifying intensity, his jaw clenched, his eyes dark with a kind of beautiful rage. He sped up, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, slamming into me with a force that made the world blur. I broke first. It was a violent, total-body collapse. My vision went white at the edges, and my internal muscles clamped down on him so hard he let out a strangled shout. He didn't stop, though. He gave three more heavy, desperate shoves, and then I felt the hot, pulsing surge of him filling me. He groaned, his forehead dropping onto my shoulder, his breath coming in jagged, ruined sobs. We stayed like that for a long time. The only sound was our breathing and the slow drip of condensation from a pipe somewhere in the ceiling. The 'angel's share' is what they call the wine that evaporates during the aging process. Standing there, shivering as the sweat cooled on my skin, I felt like that—like part of me had just turned into air and vanished. He pulled out slowly, the wet sound of it making me flush all over again. He helped me straighten my dress. He even found one of my hairpins on the floor. He didn't say anything sweet. He didn't ask for my number. He just looked at me, touched the bruised spot on my neck with his thumb, and said, 'Definitely an A-plus, Georgia.' And then he walked out. [Dr. Aris]: (A long silence) And how do you feel now, recounting it? [Blair]: (Sound of wine being poured) I feel like I need a cigarette. And I haven't smoked since 1999. But mostly? I feel like I finally stopped writing the story and started living it. Even if it was only for forty-five minutes in a basement. [Dr. Aris]: Will you see him again? [Blair]: That’s the thing about a good vintage, Aris. You don't try to recreate it. You just remember the way it burned on the way down. Besides, I have a feeling if we did it again, we’d end up arrested or married. And I’m not sure which one is worse at my age. [Dr. Aris]: You're deflection-joking again. [Blair]: (Softly) Maybe. Or maybe I’m just realizing that for the first time in ten years, I don't care about the ending. I just liked the way the middle felt. The middle was... it was substantial. It was honest. He didn't look at me like a 'divorced novelist.' He looked at me like a woman who was starving, and then he fed me. (Sound of a phone buzzing) [Blair]: Oh. [Dr. Aris]: What is it? [Blair]: It’s a text. From an unknown number. [Dr. Aris]: What does it say? [Blair]: (A small, wicked laugh) It says: 'The 2019 vintage just arrived at my hotel. It’s supposed to be even more aggressive. Are you busy at eight?' [Dr. Aris]: And? [Blair]: And I think our session is over, Aris. I have to go find a dress that’s easier to get out of. [End of Transcript]

Did You Honestly Believe I’d Let You Walk Away After That Comment About the Tannins?

You might also enjoy

Low-Impact Cardio

9:14 PM, Friday

"I Didn't Say You Could Swallow"