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The way he looked at me wasn't a question; it was a foregone conclusion, like a match held too close to dry cedar.
His hand was a weight I hadn't prepared for, a sudden physical deadline that demanded I stop over-analyzing my own desire.
He held the stem of the glass like a throat, his thumb tracing the rim with a precision that made her lungs feel suddenly too small for her chest.
I spent three hours trying to treat you like a layout, a series of shadows and highlights to be managed, but you kept breaking the frame.
I looked at him the way I look at a particularly stubborn semi-colon in a student’s lyric essay: I knew he was doing too much work, but I couldn't bring myself to delete him.
She looked at me with the kind of focus usually reserved for a contract line-item, then she let the elevator door close.
Your neck is the color of bleached bone under the deck lights, and I can see the pulse there, erratic as a dying bird.
The way he looked at me wasn't a glance; it was a reconnaissance mission, and I was wide open for the taking.
The humidity was doing things to my hair that usually require a stylist and a prayer, but Julian was looking at my mouth instead.
Julian’s hand on the small of my back wasn’t a gesture of support; it was a territorial claim written in heat and wool.
He pinned me against the mahogany, the smell of dust and old money mixing with the sharp, saline scent of my own arousal.
I didn’t want to be the woman who gets unraveled by a consultant in a linen shirt, yet here I am, typing this.