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I didn’t want to be the woman who gets unraveled by a consultant in a linen shirt, yet here I am, typing this.
The silence in this room is a character you didn't cast, but it’s the one stealing every single scene we have together.
I watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the thick cord of muscle straining against a work-shirt that had seen better decades.
The steam didn't obscure her; it acted like a soft-focus lens on a camera I wasn't supposed to be operating.
The way your psoas must be tightening as you reach for that top shelf, a line of tension running from your inner thigh right up into your core, it’s a geometry I can’t stop calculating.
The dust was everywhere, a fine silt that turned our sweat into a kind of gritty lubricant, making every touch feel prehistoric.
The way her knees pressed against the velvet of the seat, she looked like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.
I watched the sweat track a path between your breasts like a river cutting through a valley I hadn't yet mapped.
"You looked at that glass of Petit Verdot like you were trying to find a reason to sue the winemaker, then drank it anyway."
She didn't look like a woman who waited for things, but there she was, dissecting a lemon peel with surgical focus.
His hand was on my hip, his thumb hooked into my belt loop like he was anchoring himself against a gale-force wind.
The draft from the floorboards was a minor line item compared to the sheer thermal output of his mouth against her inner thigh.