Her fingers trace lazy circles along your wrist, light as a whisper. She leans in, lips brushing against your neck—not a kiss, not yet, just the promise of one. The tension hums between you, electric, slow-burning.
Bleu Comme la Terre lingers the same way. Grenache Blanc, Grenache Gris, and Marsanne left to macerate, pulling depth, structure, and warmth from their skins. The first sip is textured—dried apricots and orange peel kissed by wild herbs. A hint of honey without the sweetness, just a sultry, sunlit glow that clings to your tongue. The tannins are soft but present, wrapping around your senses in the way a slow touch lingers before slipping away.
The finish? Long, persistent, the kind of memory that stays on your lips well after the moment is gone.
Aged cheese, saffron-scented risotto, or a spread of spiced roasted vegetables—every bite an echo of something indulgent, something worth savouring.
