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His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.
He tasted like the first humid press of a New Orleans July, thick with the promise of a storm that never breaks.
Elara felt the vibration of his intent before he even spoke, a low-frequency hum that settled deep in her marrow.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
The hotel ice bucket was sweating onto the mahogany veneer, a slow, rhythmic drip that timed the way she was unzipping her dress.
My psoas is screaming from the tension of being the perfect mother of the bride, but Elias is watching me with a hunger that makes my alignment feel like a lie.
I watch the way your collarbone catches the city light, a sharp, elegant line that looks like a challenge I haven’t been assigned yet.