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She was vibrating at a frequency that would have shattered a lesser man, a high, sharp C-sharp that tasted like lightning.
!["I Didn't Think You Had This Much Fight In You"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-didn't-think-you-had-this-much-fight-in-you"-563-cover-1777968060381.jpg)
The condensation on my water glass is the only thing moving in this room, a slow, gravity-fed tear tracing through the dust.
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.
The rain was coming down in sheets of gray iron, blurring the world outside until there was nothing left but the two of them and the smell of old paper.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
He had that way of standing, you know? Like he was part of the boat's architecture. Steady. Immovable. And I just wanted to see if I could make him tip.
Her arousal wasn't a slow simmer; it was a flash-fry, a sudden hiss of moisture hitting hot oil that threatened to scar us both.
I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
The camera shutter is a guillotine for time; it chops the continuous flow of our longing into discrete, manageable slices of evidence.