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You were wearing that apron like you’d never seen a kitchen before, which is funny, considering you were the one holding the butcher knife.
Her breath against my jaw smelled like expensive Cabernet and the kind of trouble that gets a man a dishonorable discharge.
You’re leaning against the minibar like you’re waiting for a quarterly earnings report, but your eyes are telling a much more expensive story.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my slacks, a motion as deliberate as a signature on a closing document.
She was a walking litigation risk, draped in enough midnight-blue silk to bankroll a small revolution and smelling of cold rain.
He looked at me like I was a sequence he couldn't quite master, all limbs and breath and stubborn refusal to find center.
He had her pinned against the cool, damp concrete of the fermentation vat, the smell of yeast and heavy fruit thick enough to choke on.
He had that same proprietary tilt to his chin, looking like a retraction waiting to happen—polished on the surface, but messy if you checked the sources.
He tasted like woodsmoke and expensive ego, and I realized right then that my therapist was going to have a very long Monday.
She was the high priestess of deprivation, and I was a man who lived and died by the grace of butter and bourbon.
The weight of the mountain air was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, searing through the spandex.
You looked like a man who had just lost a multi-million dollar account, or perhaps found something much more interesting in the stairwell.