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"You looked at that glass of Petit Verdot like you were trying to find a reason to sue the winemaker, then drank it anyway."
You look at me over the top of her head, your jaw tight as a bowstring, and I know I’m not supposed to be here.
Elias noted the specific angle of her neck, the way her tendon strained against the salt-slicked skin as he moved inside her.
The ice in her cup had melted into a flat, gray slurry, but she kept stirring it with a plastic straw, looking at me like I was a problem she was looking forward to solving.
Her skin tasted of salt and expensive gin, a combination that made my mouth water like a steak hitting a white-hot skillet.
The friction of her wool skirt against his trousers had the same rhythmic, warning rasp of a serrated blade being drawn from a Kydex sheath.
The condensation on her gin and tonic was the only thing in the five-thousand-dollar-a-night suite that wasn't performing for a jury.
She looked at me like I was a ribeye and she’d been on a juice cleanse for a month. I knew better, but God, I didn't care.
The humidity had turned my notebook into a sponge, but I still wrote down every word he said as if it were a deposition.
The yacht hummed beneath our feet like a living thing, a white fiberglass cage that felt smaller with every mile we put between us and the coast.
I could feel the bass in my pelvic floor, a rhythmic thrumming that made the heat of the Mojave feel like a secondary concern.
The humidity in the Berkshires during August doesn’t just sit on you; it negotiates with your dignity until you’re both translucent.