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Julian leaned into my personal space like a hostile takeover, his thumb hooking into my belt loop while the room watched.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
Her arousal wasn't a slow simmer; it was a flash-fry, a sudden hiss of moisture hitting hot oil that threatened to scar us both.
Her thumb traced the rim of her glass, catching a stray drop of Sangiovese like she was wiping a secret off my lip.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.