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You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
I’ve spent ten years pretending his voice doesn't make the hair on my forearms stand up like a goddamn lightning strike.
The bass was so loud it didn't just hit my ears; it vibrated the spare change in my pocket and the teeth in my head.
You have this way of holding a cocktail umbrella like it’s a lethal weapon, and frankly, I’m waiting for you to use it on me.
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 watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the thick cord of muscle straining against a work-shirt that had seen better decades.
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.
Malachi’s thumb was stained purple, the juice of the grape looking too much like a bruise as he pressed it against the hollow of my throat.