He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
!["I Didn't Think You Had This Much Fight In You"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-didn't-think-you-had-this-much-fight-in-you"-563-cover-1777968060381.jpg)
The condensation on my water glass is the only thing moving in this room, a slow, gravity-fed tear tracing through the dust.
The snow was piling up against the cedar siding like a debt I had no intention of ever paying back.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
The cold marble of the kitchen island was a physical reprimand against my lower back, but Luca’s hands were a different kind of authority.
She tasted like expensive dust and blackberries, her tongue pushing against mine with a demand that made my knees feel like they were made of cornmeal.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
I watched my own reflection in your lens, a pixelated version of a woman who forgot she had a pulse until you touched the zipper.
His hand was a hot, calloused weight against my lower back, a direct violation of the three-foot rule we’d both signed off on.
The cedar bark was rough against her shoulder blades, and the air up here was too thin to sustain the way we were breathing.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
He doesn’t play the notes so much as he exhales them, a slow, carbonated leak of sound that settles in the low basin of my pelvis.
The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.
The flour on my palms left white handprints on his dark trousers, a literal trail of my own undoing.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
He tastes like the coffee we drank an hour ago and the cold air he brought in from the porch, sharp and grounding.
The rain was coming down in sheets of gray iron, blurring the world outside until there was nothing left but the two of them and the smell of old paper.
The salt didn’t just sit on his skin; it felt like it was trying to cure him, like a piece of country ham hanging in a smokehouse.
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.
She stood in the center of my studio, a spill of silver light against the rough cedar walls, looking like something I’d have to shoot my way out of.
The cooling wards in this place are a joke when you’re looking at me like I’m a cold beer after a July ruck.
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.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.
The hotel ice bucket was sweating onto the mahogany veneer, a slow, rhythmic drip that timed the way she was unzipping her dress.
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.
!["You’re Not Wearing the Bracelet I Sent to Your Hotel"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-not-wearing-the-bracelet-i-sent-to-your-hotel"-726-cover-1777536060331.jpg)
The bass from the main stage was vibrating the walls of the trailer, a rhythmic thud that matched the way my thumb was hovering over the send button.
He has these hands that look like they could build a house or tear one down, and right now, they’re wrapped around my wrists.
He didn't ask for permission to touch the small of my back; he claimed it as though he had already seen the deed of title.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
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.
Your words could captivate thousands of readers. Submit your creative writing and join our community of storytellers.
Submit Your Story