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The wine wasn't the catalyst; it was the way Julian looked at Ben looking at me, a silent permission for the world to tilt.
He didn't just touch my skin; he reached for the hum of my nervous system, dragging his thumb along a ley line I didn't know I had.
I’m watching the way the condensation on her gin and tonic drips onto her thumb and I’m thinking about the script I’m supposed to be finishing.
Julian’s hand is a heavy, warm weight on the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like he owns the floor.
I could see your pulse in your throat, a frantic little bird trapped under the skin, while you discussed the charcoal's grit.
You tasted like copper and rain and that cheap lime seltzer you’d been nursing since the sun went down over the main stage.
You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
I’ve spent ten years trying to write a chemistry read that felt half as inevitable as the way your knees bracketed my hips.
My psoas muscle, usually the first thing to tighten under stress, felt like it was melting into the gallery floor.
He looked at me like a breach of contract I couldn't litigate my way out of, all sawdust and winter wind.
The way your thigh pressed against the edge of that velvet sofa looked like a bruise forming in real-time under the studio lights.