Wine Tasting
"A private tour of Napa's most exclusive vineyard. The owner is sixty, three hundred pounds, and her late husband left her with twelve hundred acres of grapes. The vintage she wants him to taste isn't in any bottle."
The invitation came through my editor.
"Exclusive interview with Marguerite Delacroix. Private tour of Château Soleil. One night only."
Marguerite was a legend. French-born, married a California wine baron at twenty, widowed at fifty-five, now running twelve hundred acres of the finest vineyard in Napa.
I was a wine journalist with exactly one published article.
Why she picked me remained a mystery.
Château Soleil was everything the photos promised.
Rolling hills covered in vines. A stone manor that could have been transplanted from Bordeaux. Gardens that smelled like heaven after rain.
Marguerite met me at the gates.
She was not what I expected.
Sixty years old. Three hundred pounds.
But she carried it like a queen—draped in silk that matched the sunset, jewelry that could have funded my magazine, presence that made the vast estate feel intimate.
"You are the journalist." Her accent was pure Paris. "The one who wrote about terroir with such... passion."
"You read my article?"
"I read everything written about wine." She took my arm. "Walk with me. I'll show you what passion really means."
The tour took hours.
Vineyards at golden hour. The crushing facility where workers prepared for harvest. Barrel rooms where wines aged in French oak.
Through it all, Marguerite kept touching me—my arm, my back, my shoulder. Guiding, directing, claiming.
"Wine is about patience," she explained. "Waiting for the right moment. Knowing when the grape is ready." Her eyes met mine. "Knowing when anything is ready."
"Ready for what?"
"For tasting." She smiled. "Come. I'll show you the cellar."
The cellar was underground.
Stone walls, cool air, thousands of bottles stretching into darkness. The oldest wines dated back to prohibition.
"My husband built this," Marguerite said. "For his collection. For his pleasures." She walked deeper. "Now it serves mine."
"Your pleasures?"
"Wine. Food. Beauty." She stopped at a heavy door. "And other appetites."
She opened the door.
Beyond was not a wine cellar.
It was a bedroom. Underground, secret, luxurious beyond reason. A massive bed draped in velvet. Candles already burning. A table set with wine and cheese and chocolate.
"Every harvest, I bring someone here," Marguerite explained. "A man who understands passion. Who appreciates... depth."
"You brought me here to—"
"I brought you here to taste." She began unfastening her dress. "Wine first. Then... other things."
She poured a vintage I'd never heard of.
"1962. The year I was born. There are three bottles left." She handed me a glass. "Taste."
I tasted.
It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Layers upon layers—fruit, earth, time itself distilled into liquid.
"Now." She set down her glass. "Taste me."
Her dress pooled on the stone floor.
Three hundred pounds of French sophistication, naked in candlelight. Breasts heavy with age and abundance. Belly that curved like the hills above us. Thighs thick as the oldest vines in her collection.
"I age like my wines," she said. "Better each year. More complex. More rewarding."
"You're—"
"I'm sixty." She reclined on the bed. "I've been crushed, fermented, aged. I'm ready for consumption." She spread her legs. "And I require a connoisseur."
I approached her like a tasting.
Visual first—examining the curves, the textures, the way light played across her skin. Then aroma—the scent of expensive perfume mixed with arousal, musk and flowers.
"Don't rush," she breathed. "Wine teaches patience."
I kissed her inner thigh. Soft. Exploratory.
"Yes. Approach gradually. Build the palate."
I worked higher. Tasting her skin. Learning her body like I'd learn a complex vintage.
"Now." Her hand found my head. "The finish."
I tasted her for an hour.
She guided me the way she'd guide a novice through a flight—commenting on my technique, praising when I found the right notes, redirecting when I went astray.
"There," she gasped when I finally found her rhythm. "That's it—hold that—"
She came like a wave breaking, like a vintage opening up, like something aged to perfection finally being consumed.
"Mon Dieu—" She was shaking. "You have a gift."
"I'm a good student."
"You're a natural." She pulled me up. Onto her. Into her. "Now. The main course."
I made love to Marguerite Delacroix in her underground sanctuary.
Surrounded by wines worth more than my car, my apartment, my entire life. Her massive body wrapped around me, her French curses filling the cellar, her pleasure building and cresting like fermentation itself.
"Harder," she demanded. "I'm not fragile—I'm aged."
I gave her everything.
She came three more times before I did.
"Magnifique," she breathed when I finally collapsed on her belly. "You have earned your interview."
The article I wrote was never published.
Too personal. Too revealing. Too much about the woman and not enough about the wine.
Instead, I became Château Soleil's "sommelier in residence."
I live in the guest house. I consult on pairings. I write private tasting notes that only Marguerite reads.
And every harvest, we retreat to the cellar.
"You're learning," she tells me after our latest session. Three years now. My palate—for wine and for her—has improved immeasurably.
"You're a good teacher."
"I'm a demanding one." She pours wine—the last bottle of 1962. "But you meet my demands."
"I try."
"You succeed." She kisses me. "Now. Let's see what else you've learned."
I've learned everything about wine.
But her—I'm still discovering new notes.
And I have years of tasting ahead.