The way your pulse hammered against the skin of your throat through my viewfinder felt like a rhythmic demand for an edit.
I have taught three hundred students that tension requires a delayed gratification, but you are a master of the cruelest syllabus I have ever encountered.
Maya didn't flinch when he cinched the paper band, the adhesive sticking to the fine, pale hairs of her wrist.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
!["I'm Counting Every Minute You’re Not Under My Thumb"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i'm-counting-every-minute-you’re-not-under-my-thumb"-419-cover-1784246467772.jpg)
The saxophone wailed like a widow while I watched her pulse jump against the high collar of that black silk shirt.
His hand was already moving under the hem of my borrowed robe, finding the wet heat of me with a terrifying, practiced accuracy.
Liam looked like a mid-century modern chair—expensive, structurally sound, and entirely uncomfortable for anything but a short, high-impact stay.
The wind is screaming off the ridgeline like a jet engine, but all I can hear is her breath hitching against my neck.
The humidity in the ballroom was a physical weight, pressing the scent of expensive gin and industrial floor wax into the back of his throat.
His silence was a high-altitude kind of quiet, the kind that makes your ears pop and reminds you how thin the air is.
I wanted to take that look of hers and press it between the pages of a heavy book until it turned into a stain.
My heels were sinking into the synthetic turf, and Julian was looking at me like I was a layover he didn't mind extending.
The way Julian looked at me across the tasting table had all the subtle, expensive violence of a hostile takeover bid.
The condensation on the window pane mirrored the way her sweat beaded against the small of her back in the dim light.
The diesel engines hummed beneath the floorboards, a low-frequency growl that shook the marrow of their bones as they moved together.
There’s a specific way a stranger’s thumb feels against your pulse when they’re deciding if they want to ruin you or not.
The lens didn't just capture her; it stripped the tactical layers off my soul until I was standing there without a rifle.
The smell of her hair was exactly the same, a mix of expensive salon products and the faint, metallic bite of lighter fluid.
Her hand was flat against my chest, feeling the heart rate I couldn't lie about, while the party roared behind us like a jet engine.
You always were a terrible liar, Julian, and that suit is doing things to your integrity that I find personally offensive.
He tasted like woodsmoke and expensive ego, and I realized right then that my therapist was going to have a very long Monday.
He was vibrating with the kind of repressed energy you usually only see in a junior associate who’s just realized they missed a filing deadline.
The way you handled that laser pointer during the afternoon breakout session should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
The way your pulse hammered against the skin of your throat through my viewfinder felt like a rhythmic demand for an edit.
The air in Flagstaff was too thin for the secrets I was trying to keep, every breath dragging the scent of pine and his skin deep into my lungs.
He told me to stop posing like a woman with a mortgage and start breathing like someone who had just committed a crime.
The neck of the Gibson felt like a stranger's hand, cold and unyielding, while she stood by the oak vats and watched him bleed through a ballad.
Her fingers on the glass were steady, but the way she looked at my mouth was a chord held just a second too long.
She was the high priestess of deprivation, and I was a man who lived and died by the grace of butter and bourbon.
The humidity has turned his hair into a riot of damp curls, and I have never wanted to fix a man’s alignment more.
He didn’t just occupy space in the bar; he seemed to be the reason the room was holding its breath at all.
You were vibrating at a frequency that shouldn't exist in a city governed by the laws of thermodynamics and the MBTA.
The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
The strobe caught the salt on her collarbone a millisecond before the shutter clicked, freezing a hunger I wasn't supposed to see.
Julian’s thumb traced the line of my jaw, a gesture so proprietary it made my sympathetic nervous system go into a full-body hum.
The wine was a 2014 Syrah, but the only thing I could taste was the salt on Simon’s thumb when he pressed it against my lower lip.
The condensation on the Chablis bottle was the only thing wetter than the look Claire was giving the estate manager.
The humidity was a character we couldn't kill off, a thick, persistent weight that made the silk of her dress cling to her back.
She didn't just sit; she occupied the space like a challenge, her drink sweat-beaded and untouched while she dismantled my defenses.
The humidity in the St. Regis was a physical weight, pressing my silk slip against my thighs until I felt as slick as the ocean.
She didn’t look like a painting; she looked like the person the painter was trying to impress before he gave up and started drinking.
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