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He had her pinned against the cool, damp concrete of the fermentation vat, the smell of yeast and heavy fruit thick enough to choke on.
She looked at me the way a line cook looks at a ticket rail during a Friday rush—total focus and predatory.
I watched the tendon in your neck pull tight when you laughed, a high-tension wire vibrating in the dark of the sleeper car.
The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
The way your thumb traced the rim of your glass had the same heavy, rhythmic intent as a man cleaning a sidearm.
I want to see if you taste like that bourbon you’ve been nursing, or if you’re just as sweet and dangerous as a peach soaked in moonshine.
The smell of the cedar sauna is still stuck in the back of my throat, thick as woodsmoke and just as blinding.
Nico leaned in, smelling of expensive bourbon and bad intentions, while Elena watched us with the predatory stillness of a cat near a birdbath.
The way she looked at me across the open bar wasn’t an invitation; it was a hostile takeover of my entire respiratory system.
The bass from the main stage was a physical pressure in my chest, a rhythmic reminder that I was wasting my pulse.
I watched your throat work as you swallowed that lie, the tendon jumping under your skin like a trapped bird.
I didn't need a savior or a soulmate; I needed someone who could look at a forty-five-year-old woman and see a feast instead of a fossil.