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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 on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
You smell like the dust of the Cascades and the specific, metallic salt of a man who’s been working in the sun for ten hours.
The California Zephyr has this way of making you feel like the laws of physics—and morality—don't apply once you hit the Nevada border.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.
The way she looked at me through the viewfinder wasn't just about focal length; it felt like she was cataloging my nervous system.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.
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 bass from the main stage is a physical assault, a low-frequency hum that settles in my molars and vibrates the gin.
He didn't touch my hand so much as he redefined the space where my skin ended and the flour began.