Entry #110

Not Wine
by Leah McClellan


The tips of her fingers moved slowly across his cheekbone as she traced the curve of the bone to his temple. She pressed her palm lightly against his cheek as she moved down his hairline and under his jaw, then back around behind his ear and across the nape of his neck. His breath caught and stopped as she stared into his eyes, searching. His gaze was locked on hers, unblinking, as his hand reached toward her, trembling.

Fingers now still, her eyes moved to his mouth as she leaned forward. Her fingers shook as she brought them once again to stroke his face and caress his damp brow, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids.

As her lips touched his, her hand slid around again to the back of his neck as they exchanged breaths, waiting. She pressed in closer, harder, as his lips finally parted, and her sudden intake of breath became a high-pitched moan as she felt his hand pressing against the small of her back.

This is how it should be, she thought, as the urgency of their desire was traded hungrily, back and forth, between their panting, gasping mouths. She cried out as dark cherry, boysenberry, and pepper touched her tongue. Cloves and blackberry jam. Currants and smoke and spice. She fell to her knees before grapes on hundred-year vines in late October, after the frost.

Her fingers trembled around the stem as she lifted the glass to her lips. Bah. Cranberry juice.