- Heat: 3/5
In the cool silence of her private cellar, a perfectionist collector learns that true taste requires shutting out the world. A sophisticated sensory deprivation romance about the intoxicating mix of fine wine and absolute surrender.
— Violet Ashford —
I’d been expecting him at seven precisely. Philippe had warned me that Dominic was punctual to the point of compulsion, which I’d found rather appealing given that most people in Blackthorn treated time as a flexible suggestion rather than a binding commitment. When the security system chimed at six fifty-eight, I allowed myself a small smile as I moved through the entry hall toward the front door.
The man standing on my doorstep wore dark trousers and a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and he held a leather portfolio case that suggested he took his work seriously. What Philippe hadn’t mentioned was the way he carried himself—grounded, unhurried, with the kind of presence that came from genuine confidence rather than performance. He was perhaps forty, with dark hair touched with silver at the temples and eyes that assessed me with the same careful attention one might give to a rare vintage.
“Ms. Ashford,” he said, extending his hand. “Dominic Beaumont. Philippe sends his regards and his apologies for not being able to assist with your collection evaluation himself.”
“Violet, please.” I took his hand—warm, callused, steady—and held it perhaps a fraction longer than strictly necessary. “And I’m grateful for the recommendation. Philippe speaks very highly of your expertise.”
“He’s generous.” Dominic’s mouth curved slightly. “Though I suspect he’s more interested in ensuring your wine cellar receives proper attention than in praising my credentials.”
“Philippe knows I don’t tolerate mediocrity.” I stepped back, gesturing him inside. “Particularly not where wine is concerned.”
The entry hall never failed to make an impression—marble floors that echoed footsteps, the grand staircase curving upward, the antique chandelier I’d liberated from my family’s estate casting fractured light across the walls. I watched Dominic take it in with the same measured attention he’d given me, his gaze moving from the architectural details to the paintings to the ocean view visible through the far windows.
“Beautiful home,” he said simply, and I appreciated that he didn’t gush or perform admiration he didn’t feel.
“I’ve worked rather hard to make it so.” I moved toward the hallway that led to the wine cellar, aware of his presence behind me, the sound of his footsteps steady against the marble. “The cellar is this way. I’m particularly interested in your assessment of the French acquisitions—Philippe helped me source several cases last year, but I’d like an independent evaluation of their condition and optimal drinking windows.”
We descended the stone steps into the cellar, and the temperature dropped deliciously as we moved underground. I’d designed this space with the same attention to detail I applied to everything—temperature-controlled, humidity-regulated, with custom racks that held nearly three hundred bottles arranged by region and varietal. Soft lighting illuminated the labels without exposing them to harmful UV, and the air smelled of old stone and oak and the faint mineral scent of wine aging in glass.
Dominic set his portfolio on the tasting table—a beautiful piece of reclaimed oak I’d had commissioned specifically for this space—and began to unpack his tools. Decanter, stemware, notebook, a small LED penlight for examining bottles. He moved with the efficiency of someone who’d performed this ritual hundreds of times, and I found myself watching the way his hands moved rather than cataloguing what he was unpacking.
“Shall we start with the Burgundies?” I suggested, moving toward the French section. “I’ve a 2015 Gevrey-Chambertin that Philippe was quite excited about.”
“An excellent starting point.” Dominic joined me at the rack, his shoulder nearly brushing mine as he examined the bottle I’d indicated. “May I?”
I nodded, and he withdrew it with the careful reverence one might show a sleeping child. He held it up to the light, examining the fill level and sediment, then turned it slowly to check the label’s condition. Everything about his movements suggested competence and care—the hallmarks of someone who understood that wine was more than just a beverage, that it was history and chemistry and artistry compressed into glass.
“Beautiful specimen,” he said quietly. “The 2015 vintage was exceptional. Structure and elegance.” He glanced at me. “Shall we taste it?”
“I’ve been waiting for an excuse to open it.”
We returned to the tasting table, and I watched as Dominic opened the bottle with practiced ease—no struggle with the cork, no excessive force, just smooth mechanical precision. He poured two glasses with the exact same level, the wine catching the light like liquid garnet, then set the bottle aside to breathe.
“Tell me what you know about this wine,” he said, his tone conversational rather than testing.
I picked up my glass by the stem, holding it up to examine the color. “Gevrey-Chambertin, grand cru, from one of the oldest vineyards in Burgundy. The 2015 vintage benefited from ideal growing conditions—warm days, cool nights, minimal rainfall during harvest. The producer is known for traditional techniques, aging in French oak for eighteen months. Flavor profile should include dark cherry, earth, subtle spice, with firm tannins that soften over time.” I swirled the wine, watching it coat the glass. “Drinking window is generally considered to be five to fifteen years from vintage, placing this bottle in its optimal range.”
Dominic watched me recite this information with an expression I couldn’t quite read—not impressed, exactly, but something more nuanced. When I finished, he nodded slowly.
“Everything you just said is correct,” he said. “And yet you haven’t tasted it.”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re reading the wine, Violet. Not tasting it.” He set his own glass down, untouched. “You’ve catalogued the facts—vintage, region, production methods—but those are external data. They tell you what the wine should be, not what it is.”
Something shifted in the air between us. “I’m not certain I follow.”
He picked up his own glass, swirling it gently. “I used to do the same thing. Back when I was training, I’d memorize every technical detail—soil composition, barrel aging, malolactic fermentation timelines. I could recite facts about any wine in front of me.” He paused, studying the wine. “Then my mentor blindfolded me during a tasting. Told me to stop performing knowledge and start actually experiencing the wine. It was… humbling.”
I felt something catch in my chest—recognition, perhaps. “What happened?”
“I realized I’d been tasting with my eyes and my ego rather than my palate.” He met my gaze. “The wine I thought I knew became something completely different when I couldn’t see the label. Wild. Unpredictable. Far more interesting than what I’d expected.”
The vulnerability in that admission surprised me. He wasn’t lecturing—he was sharing something personal, something that had clearly stayed with him.
“May I show you?” He gestured toward my glass. “Just as an experiment. One taste, without the label influencing your experience.”
I should have declined. Should have maintained the professional distance I’d carefully established. But something about his honesty, the way he’d admitted his own limitations rather than positioning himself as an expert, made me curious.
“How would we—” I started.
Dominic reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pocket square—silk, charcoal grey, neatly folded. He held it up with a slight smile. “Just for a moment. If you’re willing.”
I stared at the silk, my pulse accelerating. The rational part of my mind noted the intimacy of such a gesture, the trust it would require. But another part—the part I’d been suppressing for years—whispered that perhaps this was exactly what I needed.
“Alright,” I heard myself say. “But only for the tasting.”
“Of course.”
He moved behind me, and I felt the silk brush against my temples before settling over my eyes. His fingers were careful as he tied it loosely at the back of my head—not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough that no light penetrated. The world went dark, and suddenly every other sense sharpened with almost painful clarity.
I could hear his breathing, slow and even. I could smell the wine more intensely now, the cherry and earth notes suddenly vivid. I could feel the cool air of the cellar against my exposed skin, the weight of the glass stem in my fingers.
“Now,” Dominic’s voice came from beside me, closer than I’d expected. “Stop thinking about what you’re supposed to taste. Just experience it.”
He guided my hand—his fingers wrapped around my wrist, warm and solid—bringing the glass to my lips. I tilted it carefully, and the wine touched my tongue.
Oh.
Without sight, without the label and the facts and the expectations, the wine became something entirely different. It wasn’t the structured, elegant grand cru I’d anticipated—it was wild dark cherry and damp earth and something almost feral underneath, a tartness that made my mouth water, a complexity I’d completely missed when I’d catalogued it intellectually. The tannins gripped my tongue not like firm structure but like velvet dragged across skin, and the finish lingered with a bitterness that tasted like autumn and longing.
I made a sound—small, involuntary—and felt my breath catch.
“What do you taste?” Dominic asked quietly.
“I—” The words felt inadequate. “It’s not what I expected. There’s this wildness underneath the elegance. Like something untamed that refuses to be completely civilized.”
“Yes.” I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “That’s what makes this vintage special. Philippe noticed it too—said it reminded him of something you’d appreciate.”
His fingers were still wrapped around my wrist, and I became acutely aware of how close we were standing, how the darkness had stripped away the usual social distances. The silk blindfold pressed softly against my eyelids, and I felt more present in my body than I had in years.
“May I remove this?” I heard myself ask, though I wasn’t entirely certain I wanted him to.
“Of course.”
He untied the silk, and the blindfold slipped away. The light felt harsh after the darkness, and I blinked, disoriented, as my vision adjusted. When I could finally focus, I found Dominic watching me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter.
We were standing very close. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way his pupils had dilated slightly, the tension in his jaw.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The air between us had changed—charged with something that had nothing to do with wine evaluation. I could step back. Could thank him for the lesson, restore the professional boundaries. Return to my carefully controlled life where no one ever got this close.
Or I could acknowledge what was happening.
“That was—” I started, then stopped, unsure how to finish.
“Different,” Dominic supplied, his voice lower now. He was still holding my wrist, his thumb resting against my pulse where it betrayed me. “I should apologize. That was more intimate than a professional tasting usually requires.”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. I softened my tone. “Don’t apologize. You were right. I was missing something essential.”
He studied me for a moment. “May I ask you something?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Why did you really invite me here tonight?” He released my wrist but didn’t step away. “Philippe offered to come himself. You could have hired any sommelier in Blackthorn. But you chose me—someone you’d never met.”
The question caught me off guard. I could deflect, could offer some professional explanation. Instead, I found myself saying, “I suppose I wanted someone who wouldn’t know me. Wouldn’t have expectations.”
“Expectations of what?”
“Of who I should be.” The admission felt dangerous. “I’ve spent seven years building this life. This house, this reputation, this… perfection. And sometimes I wonder if I’ve built a prison instead of a sanctuary.”
Dominic’s expression shifted—recognition, understanding. “I know that feeling,” he said quietly. “After my mentor died, I took over his business. Spent three years trying to maintain his standards, his reputation, his way of doing everything. I was so busy performing his version of excellence that I forgot to find my own.” He paused. “It took me a long time to realize that control and competence aren’t the same thing. That sometimes the most skilled thing you can do is let go.”
Something in my chest loosened. He wasn’t telling me what I needed—he was sharing his own experience, offering it as a mirror rather than a prescription.
“I don’t know how to let go,” I heard myself admit. “I’ve forgotten how.”
“I think you just did.” He gestured to the wine glass. “You let me guide you into darkness. Let yourself experience something without analyzing it first. That took courage.”
“It was just wine.”
“Was it?” His gaze held mine, and I felt heat spread through me. “Because from where I’m standing, it felt like something else entirely.”
He was right. God help me, he was right. The blindfold, the trust, the surrender of control—it hadn’t been about wine at all.
“I don’t do this,” I said quietly. “Invite strangers to my home and—”
“Neither do I.” Dominic’s mouth curved slightly. “I’m usually much better at maintaining professional boundaries. But there’s something about you, Violet. The way you hold yourself so perfectly still, as if you’re afraid that if you relax for even a moment, everything will fall apart.”
I felt exposed, seen in a way I hadn’t allowed in years. “And if it does? Fall apart?”
“Then maybe you rebuild it differently.” He reached up slowly, giving me time to pull away, and traced one finger along my jaw. “Or maybe you discover that falling apart isn’t the disaster you’ve been afraid of. That there’s something beautiful in the breaking.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only feel the weight of every decision I’d ever made, every moment of restraint, every carefully maintained boundary pressing down on me.
“What are you asking me?” My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I’m not asking anything.” His finger moved to my lower lip, dragging across it with maddening lightness. “I’m offering. If you want to explore that feeling from the blindfold—that surrender, that experience without analysis—I’m here. If you want me to finish evaluating your wine collection and leave, I’ll do that too. But I think we both know that’s not why you’re still standing this close to me.”
He was giving me the choice. Not assuming, not pushing, not pretending to know what I needed. Just offering himself as a possibility and waiting to see what I would decide.
“I want—” I struggled to articulate it. “I want to finish the evaluation. But not of the wine.”
His smile was slow and devastating. “Then show me where.”
“Upstairs,” I managed. “Third floor. Master suite.”
“Lead the way.”
I pushed away from the wine racks, my hands shaking slightly as I smoothed my dress. Dominic watched me attempt to restore some semblance of composure, that small smile playing at his lips, and I realized that he found my nervousness endearing rather than disappointing.
We moved through the house in charged silence—up the stone cellar steps, through the marble entry hall bright with late afternoon sun, past all the carefully curated spaces I’d designed to demonstrate my independence. My heels clicked against the hardwood, and behind me Dominic’s footsteps were steady, patient.
At the base of the grand staircase, he caught my wrist and turned me to face him. Before I could speak, he kissed me—not the tentative first kiss of people still figuring each other out, but something deeper, more honest. A kiss that acknowledged what we both knew was about to happen.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my lips, “and I will. Any time. For any reason.”
“I know.” And I did know. That’s what made this feel safe enough to continue. “I don’t want you to stop.”
“Good.”
We climbed the stairs with his hand on the small of my back—not possessive, but grounding. We stopped twice to kiss against the banister, and by the time we reached the third floor hallway, my lipstick was smeared and my breath was coming in gasps and I’d stopped caring about maintaining composure.
I opened the double doors to my bedroom, and we stepped inside.
The room was exactly as I’d left it—California king bed with silk sheets in deep purple, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean where sunset was beginning to paint the water in impossible colors. Everything perfect, beautiful, exactly as I’d designed it.
Dominic took it in with the same careful attention he’d given everything else, then his gaze returned to me. “This is your private space,” he observed. “You don’t bring people here.”
“No.” My voice came out smaller than I’d intended. “Never.”
“Then I’m honored.” He closed the distance between us and wrapped one arm around my waist. His other hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “And I promise to treat it—and you—with the respect that deserves.”
The gentleness of it, the acknowledgment of what I was offering, made my eyes sting unexpectedly.
“I’m a mess,” I whispered, because I could feel my perfectly arranged hair falling loose, could feel every carefully maintained façade crumbling.
“You’re beautiful.” He said it like fact rather than flattery. “And if you’ll let me, I’d like to show you what it feels like to stop holding all of this so tightly.” He gestured around the room, but I knew he meant me. The control, the perfection, the relentless maintenance of an image.
“The blindfold,” I heard myself say. “In the cellar. That feeling—I want that again. If you’re willing.”
Something shifted in his expression—heat and understanding. “You want to surrender without analyzing it. Experience without performance.”
“Yes.” Relief flooded through me that he understood. “Exactly that.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew the silk pocket square. “Then we’ll do this properly. At your pace. You tell me what you need, and I’ll help you get there.” He held up the silk. “May I?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He moved behind me, and I closed my eyes instinctively as the silk settled across my eyelids. His fingers worked at the back of my head, tying it securely but gently, and then the world disappeared into velvet black.
“Breathe,” he murmured against my ear. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”
The darkness amplified everything.
Without sight, every other sense sharpened to almost painful intensity. I could hear my own breathing—already faster than normal—and beneath it, the steady rhythm of Dominic’s. I could smell my perfume mixing with his cologne and something rawer. I could feel the air moving across my skin, cool from the ocean breeze through the open windows.
“Stand still,” Dominic murmured. “Just feel.”
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