“Not that much,” I say, a strange pang in my stomach.
“You’re just too hard on yourself to admit it.” In the dim light, I don’t notice his hands moving over the bare skin of my arms. A shiver runs down my spine, and it’s not because the cellar is cold.
The shudder turns into a tremor that makes the flashlight slip from my hand. It falls and goes out, leaving us in the dark, at the mercy of our four remaining senses.
Hearing: Our breathing echoes slow and heavy through the brick vault.
Smell: Orange blossom and rosemary—the intensifying scent makes me realize he’s gotten even closer.
Touch: His chest exerts a warm, solid pressure against my breasts. I’m in his arms, and even though I’m forcing myself to remain still under his touch, my body doesn’t care and reacts by responding with equal and opposite pressure. If one thing is sure in life, it’s the third law of motion, and it applies here too. Damn you, Sir Isaac Newton!
And finally, taste: My lips meet the sweet and decisive flavor of berries and an enveloping vanilla: Chianti Riserva, 2015. Michael’s lips caress mine with slow and sensual movements to the point that I feel my knees buckle, and I have to clutch his shoulders to stop my fall.
His sweetness gives way to an impetus that is impossible for me to resist and that I welcome with equal enthusiasm, my mouth giving him free access.
We’re kissing.
Michael and I are kissing.
He holds me by the waist, his hands leaving a hot trail wherever they go. I breathe him in; he breathes me in. The echo of the vaults, which previously amplified our breaths, now gives voice to our gasps.
“What the hell was in that wine?” he whispers into my mouth, licking my lower lip.
“Flavonoids,” I moan, unable to break away long enough to respond.
He lifts me onto the barrel and raises my skirt to my hips, finding space between my open legs.
His mouth descends cheekily below my low neckline, where he finds access, and which I don’t even dream of denying—on the contrary, I lower myself backward to make things easier for him, as if they weren’t already easy enough.
Crack!
The clang of breaking glass startles me. We’ve knocked over the glasses and bottle.
It’s a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for me to summon my mental faculties and shout, “What the hell are we doing?”
He is about to pull me back to him, but I push him away. “No, Michael.”
“No?” his voice holds a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.
“No . . . it’s . . . it’s all wrong.”
I don’t even give him time to reply before I turn and sprint up the very steep steps four at a time.
With my heart pounding in my chest and my pulse thudding in my ears, I go outside into the blinding sunset.
What have I done?
27
Michael
“What if I told you I kissed Elisa?” I ask Charles, while we indulge in a game of billiards after dinner.
“Are you saying you’ve realized there’s more to her than her personality?”
“Well, I didn’t really get to confirm it ...” She spared me little mercy, but I admit I keep wishing we’d taken things further.
“So, you like her?”
