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You have flour on your cheek, a smudge that looks like a thumbprint, and I’m wondering if you’d jump if I wiped it off.
His hand was already moving under the hem of my borrowed robe, finding the wet heat of me with a terrifying, practiced accuracy.
You were vibrating at a frequency that shouldn't exist in a city governed by the laws of thermodynamics and the MBTA.
I’ve written five hundred sex scenes, Nolan, but I couldn’t have plotted the specific, heavy way you moved your thumb against my hip.
I pinned her against the cold marble of the pedestal, the scent of her perfume cutting through the expensive air like a flare.
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.