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Her fingers on the glass were steady, but the way she looked at my mouth was a chord held just a second too long.
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.
The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my silk trousers, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the scar from my appendectomy.
You're watching the condensation slide down your glass, wondering if the humidity in this valley is personal or just seasonal.
He looked at her and felt the same bone-deep rattle you get when you’re too close to a controlled detonation.
I’m watching the way the condensation on her gin and tonic drips onto her thumb and I’m thinking about the script I’m supposed to be finishing.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
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.