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The air in the cellar didn't just carry the scent of oak and fermenting fruit; it carried the literal weight of her heartbeat against my own ribs.
Her heels clicked against the parquetry with the rhythmic, punishing precision of a chef's knife hitting a walnut board in a busy service.
Julian’s hand is a heavy, warm weight on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like he owns the floor.
Her skin was that perfect, translucent white of a blanched almond, and just as firm when I pressed my thumb into the soft meat of her hip.
I could see your pulse in your throat, a frantic little bird trapped under the skin, while you discussed the charcoal's grit.
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She leaned back against the mahogany bar, the condensation from her gin and tonic dripping onto a wrist that hadn't aged a day.
He adjusted the softbox like he was clearing a jam on a rifle, steady and focused, and my pulse just jumped the track.
The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
You were the only thing in that humidity that didn't feel like a lie, even though I knew your skin was a curated illusion.
You didn't breathe like the others; you didn't even sweat, despite the brutal elevation and the humid weight of the Berkshire pines.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
You tasted like copper and rain and that cheap lime seltzer you’d been nursing since the sun went down over the main stage.