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The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
The way you’re looking at my collarbone suggests a high-intent audience with a significant budget for bad decisions.
His thumbs found the knot in my shoulder with the practiced, ruthless precision of a man shucking oysters for a hungry crowd.
The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
My pulse was doing the same frantic dance it did during the 2008 Lehman collapse, all high-stakes panic and impending ruin.
I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
My billable hour is four hundred and fifty dollars, yet I’m standing in a basement in Pienza letting a man tell me I’m incompetent.
He tasted like expensive Scotch and the kind of trouble that gets you disbarred, but I didn't care about my license just then.
The air in the shop tasted of ozone and cedar, a sharp contrast to the damp, gray smell of the Cambridge street outside.
I watched the way his thumb tracked the rim of the glass, like he was looking for a flaw in my packaging before the pitch.
I’m fifty-one, and I’ve written enough sex scenes to populate a small town, but doing it on a mahogany floor is a different plot twist.
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.