“I smell that too.” I smiled brightly at her. “Now taste.”
She raised the glass, the edge catching on her lips. We both laughed at her near miss.
“Blind taste testing has its difficulties,” she said, and laughed.
“I’ll make sure you don’t get covered in wine.” I watched as she took a careful sip, first a small taste, followed quickly by another when the liquid was deemed safe. I watched intently as she experienced it, obviously trying to pick the character apart, her throat bobbing slightly as she swallowed.
Blue eyes met mine. “We used to have a fruit tree at the top of my parents’ garden. The chef used to make jam in the late summer. I think it reminds me of that.”
I smothered the desire to tease her about having a chef. “What was it? The fruit?”
She thought to herself for a moment. “Plum.”
A big grin broke out across my face, and at the shock of pride I felt for her getting it right, I couldn’t help but close the small gap between us, pressing my lips to hers.
I was right. The faint taste of juicy plums and dark summer cherries danced along her lips.
She was caught off guard for only a moment before reacting, her hand curling around the back of my head, pulling me a little deeper. My hand slid up her thigh, the feeling of her skin against my palm a reward in itself.
I pulled back, aware this was the most public we’d ever been, feeling comfortable in the darkness.
“I’m assuming I got that one right?” she asked.
“You assume correctly.”
“Will that be my reward if I get all the answers right?”
“I’m sure we could work out some sort of system,” I said, my voice low as I leaned in, my breath warm against her neck. “One kiss for nailing the fruit notes.” I let the words linger, watching her lips twitch with amusement. “Another for every assessment you get right.”
Chloe’s lips curved into a smirk, her fingers tracing the stem ofher glass as she turned her head, her cheek almost brushing mine. “And if I guess wrong?”
I tilted my head, letting the teasing lilt in her voice sink in. “Then I’ll have to show you how it’s done,” I murmured, my gaze dropping briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes.
“So then, teacher,” Chloe teased, her fingers pointing back to the second glass, her other grabbing the small menu of answers the server had left. “Where is this from?”
I had to take a moment to recalibrate, my mind all too distracted by the line of her neck, her bare shoulders, the way she moved and held herself.
I’d had a taste, and now I wanted more. Wine or not.
“South America,” I said, my mind struggling to come up with a better answer when she was looking at me like that. I knew it was a Malbec, but the exact location had faded from memory, replaced with the taste of her lips mixed with the wine.
“More specific, please,” she teased, her heated gaze turning up a notch. My mind blanked, any remnants of high-school geography vanishing into thin air. My mouth felt impossibly dry.
Whether it was the desperate need to feel her lips on mine once more or a genuine curiosity to figure out the wine—I didn’t mind either excuse—I leaned in and kissed her again. The taste of the wine was faint, but not of her. That flavor was quickly becoming my favorite.
She’d be a white wine, American, of course, a burst of ripe apples and nectarines, a sweet strawberry undercutting delicate florals on the palate. It would be the kind that lingers, making you crave more than one sip.
I thought for a second, distracted by the the way her face studied mine, Chloe’s attention intoxicating. “Chile?”
Quickly, her lips met mine in a swift, rewarding kiss. I hardly had time to react before she pulled away, her grin mischievous.
“She shoots, she scores,” Chloe said, her voice lilting with playful triumph.
The faint flush spreading across her cheeks and neck made the satisfaction pool low in my stomach. I wanted more, more of that blush, more of her. My resolve to go slow, to take our time, wavered. I wanted to pin her against the wall, drag her to the bathroom or back to my hotel room to see how deep that blush burned.
“This might be my new favorite game,” I murmured, my fingers brushing hers, lingering on the stem of her glass.
She arched an eyebrow, her smirk turning downright devilish. “Not tennis?”
