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She’s balanced on the rolling ladder like a mountain goat in silk, and I’m ninety percent sure she’s not wearing underwear.
He didn’t just occupy space in the bar; he seemed to be the reason the room was holding its breath at all.
I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.
The way she holds that glass—two fingers on the rim, thumb tracing the base—it’s the same way a session player holds a heavy pick.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
The way you’re looking at my collarbone suggests a high-intent audience with a significant budget for bad decisions.
Liam looked like a mid-century modern chair—expensive, structurally sound, and entirely uncomfortable for anything but a short, high-impact stay.
The wind is screaming off the ridgeline like a jet engine, but all I can hear is her breath hitching against my neck.
The weight of the mountain air was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, searing through the spandex.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my silk trousers, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the scar from my appendectomy.
The wine was a 2014 Syrah, but the only thing I could taste was the salt on Simon’s thumb when he pressed it against my lower lip.
!["I'm Counting Every Minute You’re Not Under My Thumb"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i'm-counting-every-minute-you’re-not-under-my-thumb"-419-cover-1784246467772.jpg)
The saxophone wailed like a widow while I watched her pulse jump against the high collar of that black silk shirt.