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You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
He adjusted the key light, the barn doors casting a trapezoid of shadow across her ribs that looked like a bruised wing.
The sound of the shutter is a tiny guillotine, and every time it drops, I lose another piece of my professional composure.
She leaned against the weight bench, her skin shimmering with a fine mist of sweat that looked like a high-budget lighting rig.
The air in the club didn’t just vibrate with the bass; it felt like a weighted blanket pressing against my solar plexus.
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
The clasp snagged on the cuff of my jacket, a tiny silver anchor keeping us moored in a room full of people we both despised.
His hand on my neck felt like a cast-iron skillet—unyielding, retaining a heat that scorched long after the flame went out.
I pinned her against the cold marble of the pedestal, the scent of her perfume cutting through the expensive air like a flare.
The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
I could feel the vibration of the tracks through her hip bones, a steady thrumming that made every slide of my hand feel like a confession.