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10 stories found
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
The cold marble of the kitchen island was a physical reprimand against my lower back, but Luca’s hands were a different kind of authority.
The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
He tasted like cold rain and the expensive, botanical gin he knew I kept behind the crystal decanters for exactly this kind of disaster.
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.
He had that way of standing, you know? Like he was part of the boat's architecture. Steady. Immovable. And I just wanted to see if I could make him tip.
The way his thumb hooked into his belt loop was more of a geographic landmark than anything I'd seen in the Alps.