Chapter 26 Elisa #2
“Where are all the bottles?” he asks when we reach the end of the barrels. Michael’s voice reveals a sincere curiosity that amazes me and quickens my heartbeat. Not even the most pyrotechnic compliment can match a man who simply shows he’s listening.
“Here,” I reply, pointing to a wooden door with a worn look and a heavy latch. I unhook it and take one of the flashlights hanging on the wall. “Do you want to see where the magic happens?” I ask, pointing to a stone staircase that disappears down into the darkness.
“That’s the best part, isn’t it?”
“Nothing better.” We step inside, and I close the door behind us, plunging us into darkness. “There are no lights here. There’s nothing that can disturb the wine.” With a click, I turn on the flashlight, which illuminates a flight of worn stairs.
The staircase is long and narrow, and as we go down, the temperature gradually cools. When we reach the bottom, I illuminate the endless cellar with its low ceiling, one cross vault after another, the sides lined with wooden racks packed with bottles.
“Here’s the Chianti Classico Gallo Nero: One hundred thousand bottles come to rest here every year in the dark, cool, silence,” I say whispering.
I take out a bottle of Count Ricasoli Riserva Oro and place it on a barrel where we keep the tasting kit.
If I want to impress Michael, I have to uncork the best we have.
“2015 was an excellent year,” I say, pouring it into two glasses.
“The winery’s most prestigious selection. ”
“Are you trying to bribe me?” he asks, taking the glass by the stem, his fingers near the base, giving me a mental orgasm. Practically everyone I see drinking wine holds the glass by the cup, unaware that heat from the hand alters the flavor.
“If I’m going to convince you that the company has great potential, you have to taste it for yourself, and the potential, right now, is in that glass. But yes, I’d also like to bribe you. Am I succeeding?”
“We shall see,” he replies cryptically.
We bring the glasses to our lips and take a sip, in silence, locking eyes in the dim light, our faces barely illuminated. God, why does it look like he’s thinking about anything but wine?
I wanted to impress him by reeling off tasting notes worthy of Wine Spectator, but everything I ever knew about wine analysis just went out the window. I could have drunk some flat Fanta and not realized it. “What do you think?” I ask him.
“Superb.”
“I’m responsible for all this,” I exclaim, exhilarated, taking the flashlight again and illuminating the cellar. “Time doesn’t exist here. Wine doesn’t care; you can’t rush it. Every second, every hour, every day, every year that passes, it improves.”
“I think you’ve improved,” he says out of nowhere, putting the glass down. Here we are again on that slippery ground from before. “In every way.”
“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?