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You are standing by the punch bowl like a martyr waiting for a stake, and frankly, the martyrdom is making me incredibly wet.
Her breath on my collarbone was a localized weather pattern, a warm front moving against the stagnant chill of the hallway.
The smell of her hair was exactly the same, a mix of expensive salon products and the faint, metallic bite of lighter fluid.
He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
The scaffolding groaned beneath us, a rusted skeleton articulating our shared sins against the backdrop of a cold, indifferent New England sky.
He watched the way the silk fought against the curve of her hip, a tactical disadvantage he was more than happy to exploit.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.