Find your next favorite read
296 stories found
His hand was a weight I hadn't prepared for, a sudden physical deadline that demanded I stop over-analyzing my own desire.
He held the stem of the glass like a throat, his thumb tracing the rim with a precision that made her lungs feel suddenly too small for her chest.
I spent three hours trying to treat you like a layout, a series of shadows and highlights to be managed, but you kept breaking the frame.
I looked at him the way I look at a particularly stubborn semi-colon in a student’s lyric essay: I knew he was doing too much work, but I couldn't bring myself to delete him.
She looked at me with the kind of focus usually reserved for a contract line-item, then she let the elevator door close.
Your neck is the color of bleached bone under the deck lights, and I can see the pulse there, erratic as a dying bird.
The way he looked at me wasn't a glance; it was a reconnaissance mission, and I was wide open for the taking.
The humidity was doing things to my hair that usually require a stylist and a prayer, but Julian was looking at my mouth instead.
Julian’s hand on the small of my back wasn’t a gesture of support; it was a territorial claim written in heat and wool.
I didn’t want to be the woman who gets unraveled by a consultant in a linen shirt, yet here I am, typing this.
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.
The salt had dried in white, jagged maps across her shoulders, and I wanted to lick the geography of it right off her skin.