Page 17 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
Just stands there—quiet, immovable—watching.
I bring the glass to eye level, turning it slowly in my hand. The wine clings to the crystal, viscous and rich, painting long, languid legs down the bowl. The color is deep garnet, almost inky, with flecks of ruby catching the light.
I tilt it. Swirl once.
The aroma rises, heady and complex. I lower my nose and inhale slowly.
Dark cherries crushed under the heel. Blackcurrant soaked in smoke. A hint of violet. Wet stone. And beneath it all, something wilder—feral, almost. Like damp forest moss after lightning strikes bark.
God.
I breathe deeper, and it’s him. It’s him in a glass.
I part my lips and taste.
Just the tip of my tongue first—testing. The acidity sparks, bright and flirtatious, before it deepens, blooming across my palate in waves.
Velvet tannins. Lush fruit. A savory undertone, almost like tobacco leaf or worn leather warmed by skin.
It slides down slowly, curling heat through my chest.
I close my eyes. Not because I intend to. Because I have to. The flavors seduce. The structure lingers. It wraps around my senses like a whisper and a grip, soft and firm all at once.
A low sound slips from my throat before I can stop it.
A moan. Quiet. Raw.
The stem trembles in my fingers. I blink hard, trying to pull myself back into my body, and find Dominic watching me with that wolf-still stare.
“Good?” he asks, voice thick with grit and something darker.
I meet his gaze—and nearly drop the glass.
Because he looks like he wants to taste the moan I just made. Like he already is.
Heat banked. Restraint stretched razor-thin.
"Yes. Better than good."
He pours his own glass and mirrors my movement, swirling the wine lazily, his gaze never leaving mine.
What follows is the most unconventional tasting of my career.
There’s no technical jargon. No scoring sheets. No clinical breakdown of tannins or acid balance.
Just Dominic. Still and commanding, the flicker of firelight dancing across his face as he holds out the first glass.
“Don’t analyze,” he says, his tone firm but quiet. “Not yet.”
I hesitate.
He doesn’t.
“Forget everything they taught you. Just taste.”
The glass is cool against my fingers, but his heat presses into me, close without touching. I bring it to my nose out of habit, but he stops me with a single word.
“No.”
