"I don't mind at all," she said, offering him a quick smile. She tried not to be so nervous, suddenly. There was something ... not unnerving about it, but frightfully intimate. "Ready?"
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she concentrated on the wine glass in her hand. It was cold, against the skin of her fingertips, and the light was dancing across the surface of the burgundy liquid.
This felt a bit like being on stage; she hoped he wouldn't think she was putting on a show. But if someone was borrowing your sensations, you couldn't simply toss the cup back and chug. You had to ... savor it.
And so as she raised the glass, she held it in place for a moment, allowing herself to inhale the complex mixture of scents: the berry top notes, the meaty undertaste. She tilted the flute against her mouth, allowing a small stream to trickle against her lips. She parted them, tasting it as if for the first time, letting the barest hint of it overwhelm her.
She paused to catch her breath before tilting the glass back further, and this time, the wine filled her mouth, deep and weighty with a hint of sweetness. Acid, crisp, but not bitter. It danced on her tongue and burned, ever so slightly, as it slid down her throat.
After one, two, three mouthfuls, she eased the flute back; her tongue darted out, unbidden, to catch a stray droplet that was hovering on her lips.
When she opened her eyes again, she was blushing. Could he feel that, the heat in her cheeks, the warmth as the wine settled in her belly? The way her heart was pounding a touch faster that it had been before?
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2014-03-22 04:21 am (UTC)She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she concentrated on the wine glass in her hand. It was cold, against the skin of her fingertips, and the light was dancing across the surface of the burgundy liquid.
This felt a bit like being on stage; she hoped he wouldn't think she was putting on a show. But if someone was borrowing your sensations, you couldn't simply toss the cup back and chug. You had to ... savor it.
And so as she raised the glass, she held it in place for a moment, allowing herself to inhale the complex mixture of scents: the berry top notes, the meaty undertaste. She tilted the flute against her mouth, allowing a small stream to trickle against her lips. She parted them, tasting it as if for the first time, letting the barest hint of it overwhelm her.
She paused to catch her breath before tilting the glass back further, and this time, the wine filled her mouth, deep and weighty with a hint of sweetness. Acid, crisp, but not bitter. It danced on her tongue and burned, ever so slightly, as it slid down her throat.
After one, two, three mouthfuls, she eased the flute back; her tongue darted out, unbidden, to catch a stray droplet that was hovering on her lips.
When she opened her eyes again, she was blushing. Could he feel that, the heat in her cheeks, the warmth as the wine settled in her belly? The way her heart was pounding a touch faster that it had been before?