It starts with just one—Chardonnay, sun-ripened and supple. But soon, skin meets skin, juice clings to flesh, and the slow pulse of fermentation begins. The room thickens. Every swirl of this deep golden wine is a new body pressing in, all citrus sweat and apricot moans, bruised apple and saline whispers.
It grips—light tannins trailing fingers along your tongue while orchard fruit and wild herbs spill freely. There's something earthy, something raw, like licking stone floors after the party’s climax. And while no one's talking about dinner, the table’s set: smoked trout flaking under your fork, roast chicken with lemon-stained skin, sticky tamari mushrooms collapsing into pleasure.
This bottle doesn’t need a cork—it pops off like a top flung across the room. And you? You’re already in the pile.
