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The salt didn’t just sit on his skin; it felt like it was trying to cure him, like a piece of country ham hanging in a smokehouse.
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 the way the condensation pooled in the hollow of your throat, wondering if you knew my pulse was mirroring yours.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.
Her breath smelled like the eighty-dollar Pinot they were pouring downstairs, and her hand was already unzipping my fly with a reporter’s efficiency.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
I watched you bite your lip when the minister mentioned 'forever,' and I knew then that your knees were already bruised from me.
The flour was everywhere, a fine white dust coating the dark wood of the island and the sweat-slicked curve of her inner thigh.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
The salt on your neck was a seasoning I hadn't prepared for, sharp and minerals-heavy against the dull sweetness of the hotel's cheap champagne.