She’s poolside in a one-piece unzipped to the navel, heels still on, and a bottle of Picpoul sweating in her grip. “You like it crisp, don’t you?” she coos, as the cork pops like the soundtrack just hit saxophone.
It pours pale gold—sleek, sultry, with legs that glide down the glass like a dancer in slow motion. On the nose? Lemon zest, green apple, and that unmistakable scent of coastal suggestion. She takes a sip, lets it sit on her tongue like it’s got somewhere to be, then swallows with a moan you’ll replay in your mind for days.
You’re offered oysters slurped straight from the shell, a lemon tart with whipped cream you suspect is for more than just eating, and a sharp, creamy chèvre that somehow ends up smeared in places it was never meant to go. It’s classy, baby—but dirty where it counts.
