He held his wine glass up to the light, watching thick rivulets of crimson slide down the side of the goblet.
“Perfect legs.” It came out a raspy breath, something to murmur in a lover’s ear.
I felt like a voyeur watching him twisting and turning his glass, the wine coating the inside of the bowl a shimmering red – his lips parted, the tip of his tongue held between his teeth.
Uninspired by the vintage, I wondered aloud if he wanted some privacy to enjoy his wine alone.
When he didn’t answer, I left the table but took the bottle.