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I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
The way you’re looking at my collarbone suggests a high-intent audience with a significant budget for bad decisions.
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.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my silk trousers, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the scar from my appendectomy.
The wine was a 2014 Syrah, but the only thing I could taste was the salt on Simon’s thumb when he pressed it against my lower lip.
!["I'm Counting Every Minute You’re Not Under My Thumb"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i'm-counting-every-minute-you’re-not-under-my-thumb"-419-cover-1784246467772.jpg)
The saxophone wailed like a widow while I watched her pulse jump against the high collar of that black silk shirt.
His thumbs found the knot in my shoulder with the practiced, ruthless precision of a man shucking oysters for a hungry crowd.
You're watching the condensation slide down your glass, wondering if the humidity in this valley is personal or just seasonal.
You were vibrating at a frequency that shouldn't exist in a city governed by the laws of thermodynamics and the MBTA.
The humidity in the ballroom was a physical weight, pressing the scent of expensive gin and industrial floor wax into the back of his throat.
You looked like a man who had just lost a multi-million dollar account, or perhaps found something much more interesting in the stairwell.