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He looked at me like a breach of contract I couldn't litigate my way out of, all sawdust and winter wind.
I remember the way the spine of that first edition cracked, a sound like a dry branch snapping under the weight of August humidity.
He tasted of brined olives and the sharp, citric heat of the galley, his thumbs pinning my wrists against the cold stainless steel.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
His hand was a heavy weight on my lower back, a physical lien on my composure that I had no intention of discharging.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
The cold marble of the kitchen island was a physical reprimand against my lower back, but Luca’s hands were a different kind of authority.
The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.