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Mara didn’t just walk through the stacks; she claimed them like a cartographer who had finally found the actual soil.
I watched the salt crystals dry against the hair on your forearm, a white crust of everything I wanted to taste.
His hand was flat against the small of my back, right where the sacrum meets the spine, and he wasn't just checking his alignment.
The cedar planks were humming with the heat, and she stood there with that digital timer clicking against her thigh like a second heartbeat.
The salt air is doing things to your hair that your stylist in the Loop would probably categorize as a breach of contract.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
You look like you're trying to calculate the ROI on looking at me, and honestly, the math isn't checking out.
You are a storm in a silk dress, pinned between the cold window and the two of us, tasting like rain and gin.
He watched the way the compression fabric of her leggings fought against the curve of her hip, a silent, high-tension drama.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.
I was a senior associate with a corner-office trajectory and a closet full of charcoal wool, yet I let him unmake me.
I touched the copper rim of the basin and felt a spark jump all the way to my tailbone, sharp as a needle.