No sound. No light. Just the hum of anticipation and the scent of you—damp soil, wild herbs, the sharp breath of ripe fruit torn apart too soon.
You didn’t rush. You pressed in slowly, edge by edge. First the cherry, taut and cold. Then the velvet grip of tannin—like hands on my waist, not letting go. You whispered with smoke, herbs, a flicker of iron and something floral that faded before I could name it.
Each sip stole a sense. Each pause made the next sensation louder. More. Too much. You unraveled me by subtraction—no sweetness, no softness, just raw pressure and a finish that refused to fade.
When it was over, I wasn’t sure what had happened. But I knew I wanted it again.
Serve with venison tartare, roasted beetroot, or the kind of night that leaves bite marks.
