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The way your pulse hammered against the skin of your throat through my viewfinder felt like a rhythmic demand for an edit.
The humidity has turned his hair into a riot of damp curls, and I have never wanted to fix a man’s alignment more.
The air in Flagstaff was too thin for the secrets I was trying to keep, every breath dragging the scent of pine and his skin deep into my lungs.
The strobe caught the salt on her collarbone a millisecond before the shutter clicked, freezing a hunger I wasn't supposed to see.
Her fingers on the glass were steady, but the way she looked at my mouth was a chord held just a second too long.
Your thumb was hooked into my belt loop, dragging the denim just enough to let the draft hit my skin while the stove hummed.
The humidity was a character we couldn't kill off, a thick, persistent weight that made the silk of her dress cling to her back.
She didn't just sit; she occupied the space like a challenge, her drink sweat-beaded and untouched while she dismantled my defenses.
The studio smelled of ozone and expensive dust, a sterile environment where he planned to dissect me with a high-definition lens.
The way she unzips that dress is a procedural nightmare, a slow-motion violation of every ethics seminar I’ve sat through since the Bar.
Her skin tasted like the sea, which was a lie, because we were in the middle of the Tuscan hills, miles from any coast.
Julian’s thumb traced the line of my jaw, a gesture so proprietary it made my sympathetic nervous system go into a full-body hum.