You started slow. Soft, glowy, cherry-bright. I thought maybe you’d be easy—flirtatious, light on your feet, one of those breezy sips I forget in the morning.
But then you came in close.
Lemberger hit like a hand at the small of my back—earthy, firm, a little rough around the edges. Trollinger kept things lifted: all red fruit and perfume, like lipstick on a collar. You tasted like someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, but still wants to play.
There was sweat. There was laughter. There was that one breathless moment when I thought, “I could fall for you.” And maybe I did—on the kitchen floor, wine dripping down the side of the glass, soup still simmering and absolutely no plans to go back to the table.
Serve it with pork belly, Sichuan noodles, or popcorn with butter and cayenne. Anything with heat and heart.
