The others lingered over dessert, laughter low and lips stained with wine, but Elena felt the shift the moment Marco touched her wrist.
Not rushed.
Not forceful.
Just intentional.
He leaned in, breath a whisper against her cheek.
"Come with me."
She didn't ask where.
They stepped away from the candlelit table and slipped through a narrow hallway behind the kitchen—walls lined with crates of wine and shelves of preserves.
At the end, a heavy wooden door.
Marco pushed it open.
Inside: dim light, soft jazz, and a single round table set for two.
The air was warmer here.
Intimate.
It smelled like citrus peel and toasted sugar.
"This," he said, closing the door behind them, "is the tasting room.
Off-menu. Reserved for... special cravings."
Elena arched a brow.
"Am I the craving?"
"No," Marco said.
"You are the guest. The craving is whatever you ask for next."
He gestured for her to sit.
She obeyed, heart thudding.
He uncorked a deep red wine, poured just enough to tease the bottom of her glass.
"First," he said, "tell me what you're hungry for.
And don't say food."
That made her smile. Bold.
Challenging.
"Connection," she answered.
"But also… a little danger."
Marco's gaze darkened, lips tilting in approval.
"We can work with that."
He brought over a platter, small and elegant: dark chocolate truffles dusted with sea salt, a bowl of warm whipped cream, and strawberries soaked in something strong and spiced.
Without a word, he dipped two fingers into the cream and offered them to her.
She locked eyes with him—and leaned in.
Her lips wrapped around his fingers, slow, tasting, savoring.
His breath caught.
Barely.
"Good?" he murmured.
"Creamy," she said, voice velvet.
"Decadent."
He smiled. "There's more."
He leaned in and dragged a thumb across the corner of her mouth, catching the smear of cream.
But instead of wiping it away—he brought it to his lips.
And tasted her.
It wasn't a kiss.
But it was worse.
Or better.
Because it promised one.
By the time the second glass of wine was poured, Elena's pulse had settled into a delicious rhythm—anticipation humming in every limb.
Marco sat beside her now, not across.
Their knees brushed.
His hand grazed the back of her chair.
"This room," he said softly, "is about permission.
You ask.
You taste.
You explore.
No expectations.
Just... honesty."
She turned to him, her voice low and sure.
"I want more."
"Of me?" he asked, tilting closer.
"Of this. The way this town makes me feel."
He studied her face for a beat.
Then—slowly—he reached up and traced the line of her jaw with the back of his knuckle.
"You're just starting, Elena," he said.
"But soon, you won't just taste Rosehill."
His lips brushed hers.
"You'll belong to it."