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I was staring at the organic kale smoothie like it was a personal insult until I saw you across the hydrotherapy pool.
Her voice had that low, rhythmic rasp, like tires on the gravel of a Malibu turnout at two in the morning.
I watched her thumb trace the rim of the glass, wondering if she knew that every slow, circular motion was making my throat go dry.
I can feel the phantom weight of your hand on my hip while I’m standing at the podium, a ghost-press that ruins my posture.
He didn't just play the bass; he wrestled it, his thighs bracketed around the curve of the wood like he was trying to keep it from bolting.
Marc was laughing, a loud, expansive sound that took up all the oxygen in the small kitchen, while Sylvie’s hand stayed exactly where I’d left it.
His hand was so steady on my hip I actually considered, for one terrifying second, if he was worth the HR paperwork.
I watched the way you looked at the carbon steel, not with fear, but with a terrifyingly precise sort of hunger.
You didn't look like a tourist; you looked like a breach in a perimeter I’d spent a decade and a half building.
His thumb pressed into the nerve bundle at the base of my skull, and for a second, the world went white-out.
The wind outside was screaming like a downed elk, but inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic thud of Julian’s heart against my ear.
The way your thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans was a better opening statement than anything I’ve ever heard in court.