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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.
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.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
Her palm was a flat, hot weight against my sternum, and for a second I forgot how to breathe, how to be anything but clay.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
My skin feels like it’s been sandpapered by salt and expensive linen, a raw, thrumming reminder of what we did near the service elevator.