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The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
You didn't breathe like the others; you didn't even sweat, despite the brutal elevation and the humid weight of the Berkshire pines.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
You tasted like copper and rain and that cheap lime seltzer you’d been nursing since the sun went down over the main stage.
The sound of the shutter is a tiny guillotine, and every time it drops, I lose another piece of my professional composure.
She leaned against the weight bench, her skin shimmering with a fine mist of sweat that looked like a high-budget lighting rig.
The air in the club didn’t just vibrate with the bass; it felt like a weighted blanket pressing against my solar plexus.
The friction of his thumb against my clitoris is rhythmic, a metronome keeping time against the howling wind outside.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
The clasp snagged on the cuff of my jacket, a tiny silver anchor keeping us moored in a room full of people we both despised.
I could feel the vibration of the tracks through her hip bones, a steady thrumming that made every slide of my hand feel like a confession.
He tasted like expensive gin and the sort of reckless ambition that only survives in basement clubs after two in the morning.