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She looked like a brand-new campaign that hadn't been ruined by a focus group yet—raw, expensive, and dangerously specific.
I am calculating the exact tensile strength of your composure and wondering how much pressure it takes to make you unspool.
The wine had the kind of structure my last editor would have killed for, but all I could focus on was how Sloane's thumb traced the rim of her glass.
The merger was a spreadsheet of human casualties, but Ben looked at me like I was the only line item that mattered.
Her breath against my jaw smelled like expensive Cabernet and the kind of trouble that gets a man a dishonorable discharge.
Malachi’s thumb was stained purple, the juice of the grape looking too much like a bruise as he pressed it against the hollow of my throat.
She held the steel blades against the vine with the same practiced indifference she used to strike lines from my copy.
Her spine had that neutral, dangerous curve of a loaded spring, and the way her husband watched me watch her made the wine in my throat turn to liquid lead.
The way Julian looked at me across the tasting table had all the subtle, expensive violence of a hostile takeover bid.
I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
The wine was a 2014 Syrah, but the only thing I could taste was the salt on Simon’s thumb when he pressed it against my lower lip.