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The condensation on my glass was the only cold thing in Manhattan, until she pressed her wrist against my neck.
The way your thumb caught on the edge of your silk cuff was a detail I shouldn’t have filed away, but I did.
The ice in her drink had melted down to jagged little teeth, and I was suddenly very aware of the humidity on the back of my neck.
She tasted like expensive tequila and the kind of trouble that gets a man a dishonorable discharge from polite society.
My skin felt like a first draft—rough, messy, and desperate for a pair of hands that knew how to cut through the fluff.
She looked like a brand-new campaign that hadn't been ruined by a focus group yet—raw, expensive, and dangerously specific.
He didn't just touch my hip; he recalibrated my entire nervous system with the pressure of a thumb against my iliac crest.
If I were his mother, I’d tell him to put a shirt on. Since I’m just her best friend, I’m checking for a breach of contract.
The flour on her thighs looked like topographical maps, tracing the places where Julian’s fingers had dragged through the sweat.
Her eyes were the color of a West Texas storm front, that bruised purple-black that tells you to batten down the hatches.
The way your psoas must be tightening as you reach for that top shelf, a line of tension running from your inner thigh right up into your core, it’s a geometry I can’t stop calculating.
Her voice had that low, rhythmic rasp, like tires on the gravel of a Malibu turnout at two in the morning.