The lights are low. Not for mood—because clothes fall faster in the dark. She feeds him a strawberry soaked in warm chocolate, and the LBV drips from his glass—black and red fruits, cocoa, a trace of menthol that cools as everything else heats."I WANT YOU TO TASTE THIS,"she says, but she’s not talking about the wine.
They’ve barely touched the meat, distracted by mouths, hands, and wine that feels like a secret passed between lips. It’s earthy, decadent, pulsing under the surface—chocolate and lust, bleeding slow.
He leans in, voice hoarse. "THIS ISN’T DINNER ANYMORE."She smiles, tilts the glass to his mouth. Let the world wait—tonight, they drink from each other.
Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust Lust
