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18 stories found
Her skin was that perfect, translucent white of a blanched almond, and just as firm when I pressed my thumb into the soft meat of her hip.
He tasted like expensive gin and the sort of reckless ambition that only survives in basement clubs after two in the morning.
Your mouth on my neck felt like the low E string on my daddy’s old Gibson—thick, humming, and heavy enough to make the floorboards shudder.
He looked at me like a breach of contract I couldn't litigate my way out of, all sawdust and winter wind.
I remember the way the spine of that first edition cracked, a sound like a dry branch snapping under the weight of August humidity.
He tasted of brined olives and the sharp, citric heat of the galley, his thumbs pinning my wrists against the cold stainless steel.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
His hand was a heavy weight on my lower back, a physical lien on my composure that I had no intention of discharging.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
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.
The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.