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The hotel ice bucket was sweating onto the mahogany veneer, a slow, rhythmic drip that timed the way she was unzipping her dress.
I’m in the third row of the keynote, watching your pulse thrum against your collar. I’ve never hated a lanyard more.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
My skin feels like it’s been sandpapered by salt and expensive linen, a raw, thrumming reminder of what we did near the service elevator.
Her back was arched against the bathroom door, and for a second, the only sound was the radiator hissing like a disgruntled extra.