If you don't stop looking at my mouth like it is some quarterly KPI report, I am going to have to actually do something about it.
I watched you bite your lip when the minister mentioned 'forever,' and I knew then that your knees were already bruised from me.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.
Your hands were behind your back, your wrists crossed, and for a second, the only sound was the tide hitting the rocks.
The flour was everywhere, a fine white dust coating the dark wood of the island and the sweat-slicked curve of her inner thigh.
If you don't stop looking at my mouth like it is some quarterly KPI report, I am going to have to actually do something about it.
The camera shutter is a guillotine for time; it chops the continuous flow of our longing into discrete, manageable slices of evidence.
!["Keep Your Eyes on the Knife"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"keep-your-eyes-on-the-knife"-474-cover-1775998845624.jpg)
He tasted like the last bit of crusty bread used to swipe a plate of debris—salt, fat, and the ghost of a good red wine.
The salt on your neck was a seasoning I hadn't prepared for, sharp and minerals-heavy against the dull sweetness of the hotel's cheap champagne.
!["I Think We're Past the Point of Professional Courtesy"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-think-we're-past-the-point-of-professional-courtesy"-747-cover-1776499259188.jpg)
The fluorescent hum of the Acela lavatory flickered against the salt-crusted window while her hand white-knuckled the plastic sink-edge, drowning out the conductor’s announcement.
I’m in the third row of the keynote, watching your pulse thrum against your collar. I’ve never hated a lanyard more.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
You tasted like the twenty-year Scotch you bought me and the panic of a missed deadline, sharp and entirely too expensive.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my compression leggings, and for a second, the high-altitude air actually felt thin enough to vanish.
Her arousal wasn't a slow simmer; it was a flash-fry, a sudden hiss of moisture hitting hot oil that threatened to scar us both.
Julian watched you lean over the railing, your spine a sequence of perfect, unedited verbs that he had spent ten years trying to conjugate.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.
Caleb tasted like expensive rye and ten years of things we didn't have the guts to say while Elena watched us with that hungry, terrifying smile.
Desire in a mid-range Marriott has a specific, synthetic frequency, like the hum of a mini-fridge struggling against a humid July night.
The light in the Santa Ynez valley at four o'clock is a specific shade of unearned forgiveness, a gold that lies about your age.
Her thumb traced the rim of her glass, catching a stray drop of Sangiovese like she was wiping a secret off my lip.
I am tracing the blue-black ink of the runes on your forearm and wondering if the ROI on this mistake is worth the fallout.
I can feel the exact moment the ice hit your tongue because my own mouth suddenly tastes like bitter gin and cold iron.
I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
He had that way of standing, you know? Like he was part of the boat's architecture. Steady. Immovable. And I just wanted to see if I could make him tip.
My skin feels like it’s been sandpapered by salt and expensive linen, a raw, thrumming reminder of what we did near the service elevator.
The elastic of her mask had left a red indentation across her cheekbone, a tiny topographical map of the night before.
I watch the way your collarbone catches the city light, a sharp, elegant line that looks like a challenge I haven’t been assigned yet.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.
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