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I watched her thumb trace the rim of the glass, wondering if she knew that every slow, circular motion was making my throat go dry.
His hand was so steady on my hip I actually considered, for one terrifying second, if he was worth the HR paperwork.
His thumb pressed into the nerve bundle at the base of my skull, and for a second, the world went white-out.
I watched your throat work as you swallowed that lie, the tendon jumping under your skin like a trapped bird.
Elias noted the specific angle of her neck, the way her tendon strained against the salt-slicked skin as he moved inside her.
The humidity in the Berkshires during August doesn’t just sit on you; it negotiates with your dignity until you’re both translucent.
She didn't look like a woman who waited for things, but there she was, dissecting a lemon peel with surgical focus.
His hand was on my hip, his thumb hooked into my belt loop like he was anchoring himself against a gale-force wind.
Her fingers on the glass were steady, but the way she looked at my mouth was a chord held just a second too long.
The humidity was a character we couldn't kill off, a thick, persistent weight that made the silk of her dress cling to her back.
The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.