Steelhead, 2006 Zinfandel, Dry Creek Valley,

She stood on her tiptoes, entire body stretching upward; as her elegant fingers wriggled toward their prize, her slender legs strained every toned muscle to push her closer to her sweet, plump reward.

Just as the luscious, ripe plum was at her fingertips, a strong pair of arms grabbed her from behind and pulled her backwards. A hand went over her eyes and another ran itself lithely up her body, bringing a near-bursting, enticing, ripe-as-can-be plum to her wanting lips. She hesitated for barely a moment and he rescinded his hand ever so slightly, their bodies rubbing against one another teasingly.

She smelled of the dusty, stony air that ran through the orchard; of the sweet sweat of a morning's work, evidenced by the bushel of perfect, black velvet plums resting at the foot of the tree (there would be to-die-for pies that evening); of faint sweetness from a lotion nearly gone, honey or vanilla maybe. But despite her lullaby of scents that drew his eyes closed, she had more tannin than he expected. She struggled against his grip without holding back, and what he first recognized as edge turned into near abrasiveness.

Grinning at her formidability, he regained control of the embrace and gently pushed the plum to her lush, black licorice lips. As she sank her teeth into its red ruby flesh the juices ran over her plump lips and down her chin, dripping toward the earth before he caught them, sticky on his fingers. As he raised them for her to lick clean, she spun herself around, svelte and agile, and planted her mouth on his.

As they drank each other in, he swallowed the juices from the plum that lingered in her mouth and flowed into his. As he reached deeper, inhaling thirstily, he got a hint of spice and anise that touched his tongue and it surprised him. He closed his eyes tighter and pulled her into his body, breathing all of her in. Her hair smelled floral, yet green in its essence of the orchard around her. Her fingers dug into the small of his back passionately and just before she pulled her lips lithely off of his, he tasted red fruits: wild raspberries, surprisingly even strawberries.

He licked his lips and the inside of his cheeks hungrily, his eyes focused on hers, savoring her taste all over his tastebuds. She pushed her delicious body into his and he unexpectedly stumbled backwards over the bushel of plums at their feet. They caught each other on their way to the earth and as they fell into one another they squished shiny, ripe plums beneath their bodies, the black and ruby jewels bursting and staining their juices everywhere.

The evening's pies had been sacrificed; but the jammy, decadent hours that followed were well worth it.

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Louis Jadot, 2009 Beaujolais

She nimbly plucked two glasses of Beaujolais from the silver tray on the hallway table, giggling over her shoulder at the older boy behind her. As she lead him up the stairs towards her room, she took a gulp from one of the glasses, licking her full, scarlet lips. Her ringlets of strawberry blond hair bounced daintily as she ascended the stairs quickly, almost on tiptoe. When she reached her bedroom door, she craned her neck one last time and, seeing no one, pulled the boy into her room.

They had met at the fair the night before; they shared a paper cone of truffle Parmesan fries and a fleeting, passionate kiss. She tasted of vanilla and smelled faintly of smoke from the lone cigarette she had cagily snuck from her mother's case earlier in the day. But when she had left abruptly, he didn't understand why, and he was left wanting to taste her again. Touching his fingers to his lips he had strained to recall the exact memory of her scent, her taste; but it was already gone. He made her promise to see him the next day and she had used the party as a distraction to get him inside, past her parents, and upstairs to her bedroom.

The impeccable white walls, bed, and furniture of her room were offset by the verdant, vibrant energy that was exuded by the two bodies standing inches apart beside the window. The late afternoon sun spilled into the room and hit her soft curls delicately, momentarily betraying her innocence and youth. Unable to contain herself, she threw herself toward him, hurriedly kissing his lips, eyes shut expectantly.

She tasted of ripe fruit and his tongue searched deeper to know her, but she kept her lips tight as he pulled her into him. He could feel her inexperience, her touch slightly rough and unfinished, as he strove to take more from their embrace. His mouth yearned to taste her deeply, but was frustrated by the impasse. He pulled away and, once again, touched his fingers to his lips. Her essence just barely clung to his tongue, softly brushed against the inside of his cheeks, but it didn't last.

The romantic in him wanted to try again to achieve that perfect, delicious kiss, to drink one another in ravenously and let bliss wash over them; but she sipped from her glass and swirled its contents nervously, trying to use it as a means to distract him from moving so fast. Undeterred, he deftly set his own long-stemmed glass on her spotless white nightstand, the wine still and calm in its tear-shape as he slid it onto the finished wood surface. He moved forward and her calves hit the edge of the bed, stopping her retreat and allowing him another gulp from her lips. This time he pushed forward with gentle and tentative firmness, expecting her to open up and give in to what he hoped would be something decadent and superb.

But when their union subsided, he still found himself wanting more. Her kiss lacked depth, and perhaps she did too. It was almost tragic, but it seemed she was still just a girl. Her mind was too small, her years too few; tight; frankly, a bit shallow; and simply too young to give herself to anyone. He suddenly recognized this and pulled back, mild disillusionment becoming general disinterest. He cradled her soft jawline in his hand and looked at her with affection, smiling faintly.

And then he turned to leave without another word. She was too dumbfounded to even protest, and then too heartbroken to do anything else. She shakily set her glass down beside his and plopped backwards onto her bed. Out the window she could see him walking into the golden glint of almost sunset, the autumn leaves eventually obscuring her view and blotting him out for good.

She sighed deeply, and a fat teardrop rolled down her cheek, catching the sunlight just so. She reached for one of the teardrops at her side and raised it to her mouth, tilting its stem way back and guzzling the burgundy liquid as it caught the sun's fading rays at the very moment it began to set.

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Quattro Mani, 2008 Montepulciano d'Abruzzo

As he moves through the tall grasses at the edge of his field, he puts distance between himself and the carefully plowed land behind. He smells the earthy germ and pollens of the land surrounding him, mushrooms somewhere, browned butter, sage, clove, and the spice of the earth tickling his senses. He brushes his roasted chestnut hair out of his eyes and raises them to the midafternoon sun, shielding his brow with dusty, muscular forearms covered in scratches from the shaded blackberry brambles at the edge of his farmland.

He returns his gaze forward and moves his strong, compact frame ahead toward the sturdy, unfinished bench among the short grass. Though he is not a boy anymore, his body is in its prime, taut and lithe. He is striking and apparently powerful, but if you look in his eyes you see his softness and at once appreciate it.

As he walks, he notices the ash on his hands from his earlier work in the smokehouse; a recently slaughtered suckling pig is midway though a twelve-hour smoke and already mouthwatering. As he brushes off the ash, the scent of fire and smoke that floats up past his nose in the breeze reminds him of the hearth in his kitchen and transports him to that morning at sunrise next to it, breakfast in hand: a strong cup of coffee, a thick slice of bread with butter and his wife's homemade blackberry jam.

Arriving at the wooden table and benches, he finds lunch: a crusty, rustic loaf of ciabatta; a hunk of homemade truffled salami; a decadent tile of bittersweet chocolate. As he tastes a piece of the salami, he makes that sound that perfect food causes you to make... that half-grunt, half-sigh, vocal exhale of pleasure and satisfaction. He takes off his shoes and smiles faintly as he feels the grass between his wiggling toes, savoring this moment of rest, of relaxation.

In his peripheral vision moves a flash of olive skin and black hair, strawberry lips and fiery eyes. He turns to see his wife walking towards him from their house, gait delicate yet confident, body muscular yet feminine, her ample, supple breasts swaying and bouncing as her bare feet maneuver the soft grass towards her husband. She carries an uncorked bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo in one hand and 2 glasses, already poured, in the other.

She moves in close to him and laces her fingers through his, smoothly passing him his glass. Eyes locked, they chin-chin, then bring the wine to their lips for a sip of the luscious, deep purple just delicious.

Instantly they pull each other into a passionate, violent, powerless-to-stop-it kiss. As their tongues palpitate around one another, they hurriedly deposit their glasses onto the table, ruby drops splashing onto the weathered wood as they drop to the ground and begin to wrestle each other's clothes off.

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