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The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
Julian held the crystal over the guttering candle, his thumb tracing the rim as if he were checking a witness’s pulse for lies.
Julian leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive oak and a very specific kind of corporate rebellion that I found suddenly, dangerously intoxicating.
He looked at me across the tasting room like I was a budget deficit he intended to balance with his bare hands.
His thumb traced the line where my leggings met my waist, a deliberate, grounding pressure that made my breath hitch in my throat.
!["I Didn't Think You Had This Much Fight In You"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-didn't-think-you-had-this-much-fight-in-you"-563-cover-1777968060381.jpg)
The condensation on my water glass is the only thing moving in this room, a slow, gravity-fed tear tracing through the dust.
If you don't stop looking at my mouth like it is some quarterly KPI report, I am going to have to actually do something about it.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.