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You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
He felt like a short-circuiting fuse box and she was the only thing standing between him and a total blackout of the grid.
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.
She had a way of looking at her phone that suggested she was waiting for a ransom demand or a very specific apology.
I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
You smell like the dust of the Cascades and the specific, metallic salt of a man who’s been working in the sun for ten hours.
Her fingers were stained purple with juice from the crushed blackberries, a messy contrast to the clinical precision of her knife work.
The fireplace roared like a dying engine while we stripped away the corporate armor, leaving only the raw, shivering truth of it.
My psoas is screaming from the tension of being the perfect mother of the bride, but Elias is watching me with a hunger that makes my alignment feel like a lie.
I watched you bite your lip when the minister mentioned 'forever,' and I knew then that your knees were already bruised from me.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.