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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.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.
Her laughter had the texture of expensive stationery—heavy, slightly abrasive, and hinting at a message I wasn't quite ready to decode.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.
He didn't ask for permission to touch the small of my back; he claimed it as though he had already seen the deed of title.
The cooling wards in this place are a joke when you’re looking at me like I’m a cold beer after a July ruck.
I can feel the exact moment the ice hit your tongue because my own mouth suddenly tastes like bitter gin and cold iron.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.
You looked like you were ready to pitch a Series A to the kale salad, and honestly, I’ve never been more turned on.