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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.
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.