Find your next favorite read
167 stories found
You didn’t just want my obedience; you wanted the specific way my breath caught when the leather met the back of my thighs.
The heat of the stove was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, heavy as a sidearm and just as dangerous.
His hand caught my waist, and the static between us didn't just crackle; it rearranged the molecules of the overpriced chardonnay in my other hand.
The condensation on the tent wall was freezing into a map of stars, but her skin felt like a heatwave against my palms.
!["I Bet You Say That to All the Clerks"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-bet-you-say-that-to-all-the-clerks"-189-cover-1779782458402.jpg)
The way you leaned against the shelf was as deliberate as a lawyer in a Savannah courtroom, all sharp angles and unearned confidence.
The residue on the glass wasn't condensation; it was the shimmering, oily remains of a projection he'd left behind for me to find.
I felt the callus on his thumb catch against my inner thigh, a rough, familiar friction that made my vision blur.
The California Zephyr has this way of making you feel like the laws of physics—and morality—don't apply once you hit the Nevada border.
Her skin had the texture of a well-worn Manduka mat—grippy, warm, and resilient—against the cold industrial concrete of the studio floor.
Your thumb brushes the pulse point at my wrist, and suddenly the breath I’ve spent a decade mastering simply deserts me.
He tasted of brined olives and the sharp, citric heat of the galley, his thumbs pinning my wrists against the cold stainless steel.
He leaned against the philosophy section, looking less like a shopkeeper and more like a man waiting for a stunt coordinator to call action.