Wine Cellar Ink: Silver Fox Tattoo Artist Claims His 19-Year-Old Taster

I’m nineteen, and I still can’t believe how fast my heart is hammering against my ribs as I stand in the cool hush of the vineyard’s historic cellar. The air is thick with the scent of old oak barrels, damp stone, and the faint, sweet rot of fermenting grapes. Overhead, wrought-iron sconces cast a low amber glow that makes every bottle on the racks look like liquid treasure. My black pencil skirt is shorter than the estate usually allows, but tonight is after-hours, private, and no one is here to scold me. Just me, the wine, and the man they hired to ink the owner’s back.

Damien.

He’s fifty-two, silver at the temples, with a short, salt-and-pepper beard that frames a mouth I can’t stop staring at. Ink sleeves climb both powerful arms, disappearing beneath the rolled cuffs of a black button-down that stretches across a broad chest. When he first walked in carrying his heavy leather case, those storm-gray eyes locked on me like I was the only thing in the room. The twenty-three-year age gap crackled between us instantly, electric and undeniable. I felt it low in my belly, a slow, liquid heat that made my thighs press together.

I’m decanting a 1998 Bordeaux into a crystal carafe when I feel him behind me. The heat of his body rolls over my bare shoulders. My hands tremble just enough to make the wine swirl.

“Smells expensive,” he says, voice low and rough like barrel-aged whiskey.

“It is.” I manage to keep my tone professional even though my nipples have tightened against the thin white blouse I’m wearing. “Black cherry, leather, a hint of tobacco leaf. Earth after rain.” I lift the glass and offer it to him, careful not to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t take it right away. Instead, those long, tattooed fingers brush mine as he accepts the stem. The contact is brief, but it sears. When I finally look up, he’s watching me over the rim, silver brows drawn in concentration as he inhales, then tastes. A low appreciative sound rumbles in his chest.

“Tell me more, Mia.” He says my name like he’s already tasted it. “What else do you taste when you put your mouth on it?”

My breath catches. The double meaning is blatant. I watch the way his throat works as he swallows, the way the silver in his beard catches the light, and something reckless blooms behind my ribs.

“Dark fruit,” I whisper. “Velvet on the tongue. It lingers. Makes you want to keep it in your mouth longer than you should.”

His gaze drops to my lips. “Dangerous quality in a wine.”

“In a lot of things.”

The silence that follows is heavy, charged. He sets the glass down with deliberate care and steps closer. I can smell him now—cedar, ink, warm male skin. My pulse is a wild thing in my throat.