The room pulses low with desire—candlelight, linen crumpled under elbows, two bodies leaning in, not yet touching. He feeds her a strawberry soaked in wine, the whipped cream melting between their fingers. She smiles, eyes locked on his, and says,"YOU KEEP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT."

The Ruby Reserve slides down warm—ripe red fruits, a hit of milk chocolate, and something darker underneath. She licks her lips, leans closer, her breath sweet and slow. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

She takes his glass, sips without asking."I’M NOT DONE WITH YOU YET,"she says. And as the distance disappears, so does the line between tasting and taking.