She leans in before you can think, lips tasting like cherries dipped in spice. There’s anise on her breath, a little clove on her tongue, and a grin that says she’s already decided how this is going to go. The wine purrs the same way, playful and light on its feet, but it knows where to land.
Each sip feels like a tease that doesn’t need to end, a flicker of heat running through pepper and dark fruit before cooling just enough to pull you back in. It isn’t brooding or slow; it’s quick, clever, and far too fun to resist.
It wants fat and salt, the kind of meal you eat with your hands. Crispy duck skin. A wedge of creamy cheese that collapses under the knife. Maybe both, if you’re not pretending to behave.
