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You were wearing that apron like you’d never seen a kitchen before, which is funny, considering you were the one holding the butcher knife.
You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
Nico leaned in, smelling of expensive bourbon and bad intentions, while Elena watched us with the predatory stillness of a cat near a birdbath.
The bass from the main stage was a physical pressure in my chest, a rhythmic reminder that I was wasting my pulse.
He looked at me with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserved for fact-checking a deputy mayor’s expense report.
He tasted like expensive gin and the sort of reckless ambition that only survives in basement clubs after two in the morning.
I told him the mud wrap was a spiritual cleansing, but I really just wanted to see if his composure would crack under the silt.
Elias was moving around her like a predator who had forgotten he was supposed to kill, holding that camera like a holy relic.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.
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.
She stood there in that ridiculous desert light, smelling like expensive sage and cheap gin, waiting for me to fail at being professional.
She rests the condensation-slick glass against the pulse point of her neck, watching him through the distortion of a cheap, rented flute.