He arrived three days late, paint-stained hands, reputation whispered across studios and salons. When he stepped into the abandoned gallery where I had been working, sunlight caught the dust around him like a halo that knew exactly how wicked it was. He looked at the half-revealed mural, then at me, deciding which he wanted to touch first. The first sip is dark and steady, fruit unfolding slowly, like the way his eyes traced my throat before settling on my mouth. Blackberry. Warm spice. A depth that promised trouble. He worked too close from the start, his arm brushing mine as we scraped away the plaster to uncover intertwined bodies painted in secret centuries ago. He laughed softly at the scandal of the work, his voice sliding over me like the wine’s acidity rising bright and sharp. As more of the mural appeared, the forbidden figures came alive. A man curled into another man’s arms, desire painted without shame. He paused when he uncovered them, something raw flashing across his face. The tannins settle deep, mirroring the pressure of his fingers when he guided my hand to a missed detail, his breath warm against my neck. Usually I lead. But his chest pressed against my back and I let the distance disappear. When he kissed me, it was not tentative. It felt as if the mural had been waiting for it as much as we had. Dust rose around us, the painted lovers watching like witnesses rather than décor. Serve it with braised meats or anything earthy that unravels slowly. But it belongs in a room full of half-finished paintings and a man who studies you like a masterpiece he intends to touch long before the varnish dries. Region: Entre Deux Mers, Bordeaux, FranceGrapes: Merlot
