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Her breath against my jaw smelled like expensive Cabernet and the kind of trouble that gets a man a dishonorable discharge.
He tasted like expensive gin and the kind of professional trouble that leaves a permanent mark on your resume.
The mountain air was thin enough to make my lungs burn, but it was the way she gripped my thigh that really ruined my breathing.
I viewed his interest as a high-value prospect with a significant barrier to entry, a lead that needed aggressive nurturing.
You’re leaning against the minibar like you’re waiting for a quarterly earnings report, but your eyes are telling a much more expensive story.
I’ve spent ten years pretending his voice doesn't make the hair on my forearms stand up like a goddamn lightning strike.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my slacks, a motion as deliberate as a signature on a closing document.
He didn’t just look at me; he cataloged my posture like a flaw in a blueprint, then offered to help me tear the whole thing down.
I told myself I was assessing the range of motion in your glenohumeral joint, but I was actually memorizing the heat of your skin.
Her eyes were the color of a West Texas storm front, that bruised purple-black that tells you to batten down the hatches.
The steam didn't obscure her; it acted like a soft-focus lens on a camera I wasn't supposed to be operating.
The way your psoas must be tightening as you reach for that top shelf, a line of tension running from your inner thigh right up into your core, it’s a geometry I can’t stop calculating.