Page 125 of Bottle Shock
“Come here. I’ll show you around.”
I grab my clipboard and lead her deeper into the facility. The cool air of the barrel room wraps around us, the smell of oak, fruit, and fermentation wafting in the air.
“Okay,” she says, eyes wide, taking everything in. “This is… intense.”
I laugh. “Not really. But then again, I spend about half my time in here, so I’m used to it.”
I show her the tanks, the press, the barrel stacks. Explain how the Chardonnay I’ve been working on started out. She listens like everything I say is worth hearing, like she’s actually listening. And I know it’s not exciting to most, especially when I get too technical, diving into the science of it all, but I appreciate that she cares enough to know about what I do.
When we reach the small private tasting bench tucked between barrel racks, she climbs up to sit on the edge, swinging her legs lightly.
“Try this,” I say, pouring just a splash of the test Chardonnay into a glass and handing it to her.
She swirls, sniffs, does the whole performance for me, her eyes bright with mischief.
“Mmm,” she hums, slow and appreciative. “Peach. Maybe pear? And something warm. Vanilla?”
I shake my head, a laugh rumbling out of me. “None of those things. Like, not one of those is a tasting note.”
She giggles, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m pretty sure tasting notes are made up. No wine on this planet tastes like dark chocolate on a summer porch with exotic fruit and whispers of cedar.”
That’s not a combination I’m familiar with, but I don’t argue, because it’s irrelevant.
I’ve got other things on my mind.
Like the fact that we’re alone.
And that she showed up here in a short little sundress, knowing it would drive me wild.
Her legs are still swinging gently from where she sits on the tasting bench, the hem of her dress sliding higher and higher every time her thigh brushes the edge.
It’s very distracting.
I set the glass aside and step in closer, bracing one hand on the barrel beside her hip. “They’re not made up.” My hand slides between her legs, parting them to move between them. “It’s about creating ambiance.” I cage her in with both hands, palms settling on either side of her hips, thumbs brushing the warm crease where thigh meets torso. “Setting the mood.” My head dips, inhaling that sweet, bitter citrus that’s always clinging to her skin.
She swallows, sucking in a breath. “You’re doing that on purpose,” she whispers.
“I am,” I admit.
She lets out a laugh that sounds more like a groan before I crush my mouth to hers.
She tastes like the Chardonnay.
Like my Chardonnay.
And I lose my mind a little, curling my tongue to hers, going deeper, devouring her mouth.
The taste of my wine on her lips makes me damn near feral.
I break the kiss only long enough to breathe against her skin, my mouth trailing heat along her jaw and down her neck. Then to the spot where her shoulder meets her throat. She tilts her head for me without thinking.
I place a kiss there. Then lower.
To the top of her chest.
To the swell of her breasts.
Savoring her, while slowly sliding the skirt of her dress up her thighs.
