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I am tracing the blue-black ink of the runes on your forearm and wondering if the ROI on this mistake is worth the fallout.
I can feel the exact moment the ice hit your tongue because my own mouth suddenly tastes like bitter gin and cold iron.
He had that way of standing, you know? Like he was part of the boat's architecture. Steady. Immovable. And I just wanted to see if I could make him tip.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
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.
If you don't stop looking at my mouth like it is some quarterly KPI report, I am going to have to actually do something about it.
Desire in a mid-range Marriott has a specific, synthetic frequency, like the hum of a mini-fridge struggling against a humid July night.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
The camera shutter is a guillotine for time; it chops the continuous flow of our longing into discrete, manageable slices of evidence.