Find your next favorite read
45 stories found
He tasted like woodsmoke and expensive ego, and I realized right then that my therapist was going to have a very long Monday.
She was the high priestess of deprivation, and I was a man who lived and died by the grace of butter and bourbon.
You are leaning against the marble countertop of the bar, your knuckles white as you grip a silver Dunhill lighter you do not use.
The weight of the mountain air was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, searing through the spandex.
The air conditioning in the gallery hummed like a low-budget horror score, a cold, mechanical buzz that did nothing to chill the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
Her skin was that perfect, translucent white of a blanched almond, and just as firm when I pressed my thumb into the soft meat of her hip.
The clasp snagged on the cuff of my jacket, a tiny silver anchor keeping us moored in a room full of people we both despised.
I was supposed to be checking the histogram but all I could see was the way the sweat pooled in that little dip above her tailbone.
My psoas muscle, usually the first thing to tighten under stress, felt like it was melting into the gallery floor.
I’m recording this because if I die of hypothermia or a bad decision, I want the record to show he was incredibly hot.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
The linen of my sundress was scratchy against my sunburn, but his hand was rougher, catching on the fabric like a burr.