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Julian watched me over the rim of his glass with the clinical detachment of a surgeon deciding where to make the first incision.
I have taught three hundred students that tension requires a delayed gratification, but you are a master of the cruelest syllabus I have ever encountered.
My heels were sinking into the synthetic turf, and Julian was looking at me like I was a layover he didn't mind extending.
The neck of the Gibson felt like a stranger's hand, cold and unyielding, while she stood by the oak vats and watched him bleed through a ballad.
He tasted like woodsmoke and expensive ego, and I realized right then that my therapist was going to have a very long Monday.
She was the high priestess of deprivation, and I was a man who lived and died by the grace of butter and bourbon.
You are leaning against the marble countertop of the bar, your knuckles white as you grip a silver Dunhill lighter you do not use.
The weight of the mountain air was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, searing through the spandex.
The air conditioning in the gallery hummed like a low-budget horror score, a cold, mechanical buzz that did nothing to chill the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
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.
The clasp snagged on the cuff of my jacket, a tiny silver anchor keeping us moored in a room full of people we both despised.
I was supposed to be checking the histogram but all I could see was the way the sweat pooled in that little dip above her tailbone.