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Her breath on my collarbone was a localized weather pattern, a warm front moving against the stagnant chill of the hallway.
The condensation on the window pane mirrored the way her sweat beaded against the small of her back in the dim light.
My heels were sinking into the synthetic turf, and Julian was looking at me like I was a layover he didn't mind extending.
You always were a terrible liar, Julian, and that suit is doing things to your integrity that I find personally offensive.
Your thumb was hooked into my belt loop, dragging the denim just enough to let the draft hit my skin while the stove hummed.
The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
The way you’re looking at my collarbone suggests a high-intent audience with a significant budget for bad decisions.
His thumbs found the knot in my shoulder with the practiced, ruthless precision of a man shucking oysters for a hungry crowd.
The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
My pulse was doing the same frantic dance it did during the 2008 Lehman collapse, all high-stakes panic and impending ruin.
I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
My billable hour is four hundred and fifty dollars, yet I’m standing in a basement in Pienza letting a man tell me I’m incompetent.