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Elias was moving around her like a predator who had forgotten he was supposed to kill, holding that camera like a holy relic.
Your thumb is currently tracing the seam of my stockings under this table, and I am quite certain the Countess is watching.
Her arousal wasn't a slow simmer; it was a flash-fry, a sudden hiss of moisture hitting hot oil that threatened to scar us both.
She stood there in that ridiculous desert light, smelling like expensive sage and cheap gin, waiting for me to fail at being professional.
She rests the condensation-slick glass against the pulse point of her neck, watching him through the distortion of a cheap, rented flute.
A chance encounter amidst the rolling hills of Napa turns a corporate retreat into a high-stakes game of seduction and wit.