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The hotel ice bucket was sweating onto the mahogany veneer, a slow, rhythmic drip that timed the way she was unzipping her dress.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
He didn't ask for permission to touch the small of my back; he claimed it as though he had already seen the deed of title.
Subject exhibits 145 BPM heart rate. Skin is flushed, damp with perspiration, responding to manual stimulation with rhythmic pelvic thrusts.
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 cooling wards in this place are a joke when you’re looking at me like I’m a cold beer after a July ruck.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.
The salt didn’t just sit on his skin; it felt like it was trying to cure him, like a piece of country ham hanging in a smokehouse.
My psoas is screaming from the tension of being the perfect mother of the bride, but Elias is watching me with a hunger that makes my alignment feel like a lie.
I watched the way the condensation pooled in the hollow of your throat, wondering if you knew my pulse was mirroring yours.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.
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.