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Her fingers were stained purple with juice from the crushed blackberries, a messy contrast to the clinical precision of her knife work.
The train took a curve near Bridgeport, and her knee didn't just brush mine; it lingered there, heavy and deliberate, a silent thesis statement.
The condensation on her glass was the only thing cooler than the look she gave me over the rim of that Zinfandel.
I was a senior associate with a corner-office trajectory and a closet full of charcoal wool, yet I let him unmake me.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
I watched the way the track lighting caught the sweat on the small of your back while you arched for her, a composition more honest than anything hanging on those sterile white walls.
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The silk of her slip dress felt like a liability, a thin barrier between her professional reputation and the heat radiating off Julian's chest.
I touched the copper rim of the basin and felt a spark jump all the way to my tailbone, sharp as a needle.
You’re pressing me back against the mahogany shelving, and for a second, I’m terrified the first editions won't be the only things bruised tonight.
You stood by the bar like a piece of data I couldn't quite aggregate into the rest of the room's predictable demographics.
The condensation on your glass has left a perfect, fleeting ring on the white marble of the bar, a temporary zero.
Elias was moving around her like a predator who had forgotten he was supposed to kill, holding that camera like a holy relic.