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She smells like expensive paper and the kind of tequila that makes you forget your own zip code.
The rain is a rhythmic pounding against the glass but inside the only sound is the wet, heavy sliding of skin on skin.
She didn’t look like a woman who took the train by necessity; she looked like someone hiding in plain sight, waiting for a reason to stop.
You stood by the bar like a piece of data I couldn't quite aggregate into the rest of the room's predictable demographics.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
If you don't stop looking at my mouth like it is some quarterly KPI report, I am going to have to actually do something about it.
The bass from the main stage is a physical assault, a low-frequency hum that settles in my molars and vibrates the gin.