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The way he looked at me wasn't a glance; it was a reconnaissance mission, and I was wide open for the taking.
The desert heat had a way of turning professional boundaries into something as fluid and unreliable as a shimmering mirage on the 111.
The dust was everywhere, a fine silt that turned our sweat into a kind of gritty lubricant, making every touch feel prehistoric.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.