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The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
My pulse was doing the same frantic dance it did during the 2008 Lehman collapse, all high-stakes panic and impending ruin.
I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
My billable hour is four hundred and fifty dollars, yet I’m standing in a basement in Pienza letting a man tell me I’m incompetent.
He tasted like expensive Scotch and the kind of trouble that gets you disbarred, but I didn't care about my license just then.
The air in the shop tasted of ozone and cedar, a sharp contrast to the damp, gray smell of the Cambridge street outside.
I watched the way his thumb tracked the rim of the glass, like he was looking for a flaw in my packaging before the pitch.
I’m fifty-one, and I’ve written enough sex scenes to populate a small town, but doing it on a mahogany floor is a different plot twist.
The air in the cellar didn't just carry the scent of oak and fermenting fruit; it carried the literal weight of her heartbeat against my own ribs.
!["I've Been Wondering if You Still Had That Smart Mouth"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i've-been-wondering-if-you-still-had-that-smart-mouth"-409-cover-1782259256748.jpg)
She leaned back against the mahogany bar, the condensation from her gin and tonic dripping onto a wrist that hadn't aged a day.
He adjusted the softbox like he was clearing a jam on a rifle, steady and focused, and my pulse just jumped the track.
The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.