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I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.
Julian watched you lean over the railing, your spine a sequence of perfect, unedited verbs that he had spent ten years trying to conjugate.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.
He didn't touch my hand so much as he redefined the space where my skin ended and the flour began.
The taste of her anger was exactly like a burnt roux—bitter, clinging to the back of my throat, impossible to scrape away.
I watched the way his thumb traced the spine of that first edition, a slow, calloused drag that made my own skin prickle.
You looked like you were ready to pitch a Series A to the kale salad, and honestly, I’ve never been more turned on.