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You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
She leaned against the weight bench, her skin shimmering with a fine mist of sweat that looked like a high-budget lighting rig.
I pinned her against the cold marble of the pedestal, the scent of her perfume cutting through the expensive air like a flare.
He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
He smelled like the cold air of Union Station and expensive wool, a combination that made my throat tighten like a poorly drafted non-compete.
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
Julian leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive oak and a very specific kind of corporate rebellion that I found suddenly, dangerously intoxicating.
His hand caught my waist, and the static between us didn't just crackle; it rearranged the molecules of the overpriced chardonnay in my other hand.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.
Her laughter had the texture of expensive stationery—heavy, slightly abrasive, and hinting at a message I wasn't quite ready to decode.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.