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The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
I watched my own reflection in your lens, a pixelated version of a woman who forgot she had a pulse until you touched the zipper.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.
Her breath smelled like the eighty-dollar Pinot they were pouring downstairs, and her hand was already unzipping my fly with a reporter’s efficiency.
Caleb tasted like expensive rye and ten years of things we didn't have the guts to say while Elena watched us with that hungry, terrifying smile.
I am tracing the blue-black ink of the runes on your forearm and wondering if the ROI on this mistake is worth the fallout.
I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.
Julian watched you lean over the railing, your spine a sequence of perfect, unedited verbs that he had spent ten years trying to conjugate.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.
He didn't touch my hand so much as he redefined the space where my skin ended and the flour began.
The taste of her anger was exactly like a burnt roux—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat, impossible to scrape away.